The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story

by Brennan Manning

  That was not the only time he and Jamie Taylor had come to blows. They had never been friends, not as far back as he could remember.

  Which, for the two of them, would be kindergarten at Mayfield Elementary School.

  Jack let out his breath slowly, breathed in, and turned around slowly.

  “Sweet Baby James,” he said. “Or should I say ‘Mr. Mayor’?”

  “Either is fine,” James Taylor said, his arms crossed, a smile flickering across his face. He stood there with Randy Fields, a follower from kindergarten days onward. Randy was now Mayfield’s police chief, if a force of four people, two of them part-time, could be considered worthy of a chief. Still, he did have a uniform.

  “Nice hat,” Jack told Randy.

  James cocked his head to one side, sizing Jack up. He stared at him so long it went from being simply rude to being a challenge. Randy, too, just stood there, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, smiling. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he could read a room. Randy surely shared his mayor’s joy at Jack’s cataclysmic fall.

  Jack felt the heat spread up his neck, and he was grateful his head was covered by maroon and white so nobody could see how he was flushing.

  “Can I help you with something?” Jack said at last. “Does the bustling city of Mayfield require some lumber?”

  “No,” James said, smirking. “I was just cementing this moment in my memory. I don’t ever want to forget this. Right, Randy?”

  “Never,” Randy said, nodding.

  “How’s Darla?” Jack said, a conversational stab. Maybe James had got the girl—but not before Jack had spent years in the neighborhood.

  “She’s very happy,” James said. “We all are. The girls are off at college. Cameron was QB 1 this year, and we’re looking through college offers. Maybe Texas.”

  “That’s great,” Jack said. He examined his feelings and discovered that he actually meant it. However much he might dislike James, Darla was a good girl. He had forgiven her a long time ago for breaking his heart. And anybody who played quarterback for the Mayfield Wildcats got a free pass, no matter who his father was. “It sounds like things are going well for y’all.”

  He nodded and prepared to turn back to his inventory. But James wasn’t done yet. “So, is this really happening? Please, God, let it be true. Are you really stuck in Mayfield for good?”

  Jack considered what would upset them the most. “I’m just here for a while. You’ll be glad to see me go, I’m sure.”

  “No, man,” James said. He took a step forward. “I’d love for you to be here forever.” He took another step closer, and now he was uncomfortably close, had penetrated Jack’s personal comfort zone. “I’d love to walk in here every day for the rest of my life and see you counting two-by-fours.” He smiled, flicked Jack’s clipboard with the back of his hand. “Nothing would make me happier.”

  Jack’s face flushed again as he juggled and caught the clipboard. Not for the first time, he imagined launching a long, looping left at that smug smile.

  That smile dimmed a few watts as James saw Jack’s expression. He had seen that face before. He took a step backward.

  Jack held the clipboard tight, his knuckles clenched. He would not give in, would not give James that satisfaction, would not invite Randy to do riot control.

  “Enjoy it while you can,” Jack said. “I’m not done yet.” At that moment, he meant it, meant it from his heart. He would not give James the satisfaction of lying where he fell. “I’m not anywhere near finished.” And as he spoke, he felt his spine draw straighter, his shoulders pull back.

  He was not finished.

  Please, God, let it be true.

  He took a deep breath. “Now, if there’s nothing else?”

  James shook his head and took another step back. “This should last me all day. All week.”

  “Sweet Baby James,” Jack said. “You are a piece of work.” He gave Randy a raised fist of solidarity. “Back the blue. Right, Randy?”

  “Right,” Randy said.

  Then he blinked, unsure whether he was being complimented or insulted.

  Randy would have to parse that in his off time. Jack was through with them both. He turned and began counting boards again.

  The footsteps started away, paused, resumed. Jack heard the door to the store open, then close.

  He let out his breath. How long had he been holding it?

  “I didn’t punch him,” he muttered to himself, claiming what little scrap of victory he could. “I didn’t punch him.”

  This time.

  Jack spent the rest of the morning shifting and counting lumber, making entries on his clipboard, and transferring them to the notebook at the front counter. At lunchtime, his sister walked over from her office two blocks over. She carried a paper bag with three Styrofoam bowls of chili from The Lunch Counter. She offered one to him without looking at him.

  He hadn’t considered what he might do for lunch, but his stomach was growling. So he pulled up another stool, sat down opposite them at the front counter, and took the plastic lid off his bowl. Inside were chunks of ground beef, kidney beans, big slices of translucent onion, in a sauce that was equal parts Campbell’s tomato soup and chili powder. Betty had run The Lunch Counter for Jack’s whole life, and this was her mom’s chili con carne recipe from the Depression.

  He was surprised how happy he was to eat it again.

  “Thanks, sis,” he said as they all dug in. “I was hungry.”

  “I thought you could use something to get your strength back,” she said. “I heard Jamie Taylor came by to gawk at you this morning.”

  “Who told you that?” Jack asked, slurping his chili.

  “Who didn’t?” she said. “There are no secrets in Mayfield.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I keep forgetting about that.”

  “Everybody asked me if you punched him. I heard no blood was spilled.” She arched an eyebrow. It made her look just like their mom for a moment.

  “Mary, I’m a pastor,” Jack said. “Or I was.” He gestured at her with his white plastic spoon. “Anyway. The point is, I’m not supposed to punch people.”

  “You’re not supposed to do a lot of things,” Mary said. Her father looked up sharply at her. “Sorry,” she said.

  “You’re still a pastor, Jack,” Tom said. “It’s just that, today, you’re a pastor counting lumber.”

  Jack got a chuckle out of that. “Right,” he said. “Tomorrow, who knows?”

  “I know, right? You could be counting nails,” Mary said. “I’ve got the greatest confidence in you.” And she gave him what actually looked a little like a tiny smile.

  The bell at the front door jingled once during their lunch as Charlie Gobel limped in, leaning heavily on his cane, and looking for a float for his toilet. Jack got up and pulled one down off the shelf for him. Tom rang Mr. Gobel up, asked some questions about Molly, his wife, and gave him change for a twenty.

  “I didn’t punch him,” Jack said as the bell jingled behind Mr. Gobel. “Although God knows I wanted to.” He shook his head. It made no sense. They were grown men.

  “What did he say?” Tom said.

  “Well, first he just stood there for a long time.” Jack tilted his bowl to get the last of the chili. “Said he was enjoying it so much he wanted to fix the moment in his memory forever.”

  “Son of a …” Mary spat, her face flushed.

  “Mary,” Tom said, eyes wide.

  “He is. Always has been.”

  Jack suddenly remembered a time in elementary school when Jamie Taylor had gotten him down on the playground, was sitting on his chest and flailing away at his head with his fists. Maybe they were just second-graders, but it seriously hurt.

  That was the moment when Mary had barreled into Jamie and knocked him sprawling into the dust. At that time, she and Martha were both far taller than any boy in the second grade, and Martha had joined Mary in offering to do some serious violence to Jamie i
f he got back on his feet. Jack had never lived it down, of course. Jamie had continued to ask if Jack’s sisters were coming to rescue him long after there was only one sister, which Jamie knew full well.

  “He is,” Mary insisted.

  “It’s just not very Christian,” Tom said, looking across at Jack for reinforcement. Tom did not, apparently, disagree with the assessment, just the expression of it.

  “It’s not very Christian,” Jack said, but he laughed.

  Mary snorted. Then she started laughing too.

  Tom looked back and forth between them and smiled.

  Blood is thicker than water.

  “Your numbers are off on the eight-by-tens,” she said to Jack after lunch. “We’ve never had that many at one time.”

  He checked his clipboard. “Oh. I stuck in an extra zero.” He recalculated, showed it to her again.

  She nodded and began to gather up their trash. Mind like a calculator.

  “Dennis tells me that you’re both coming for dinner tonight,” she said.

  “You don’t have to—” Jack began, and that’s as far as he got before Mary fixed him with a steely stare.

  “I know full well what I don’t have to do,” she said. “Dennis is smoking ribs for you. And you don’t have to hang out at Buddy’s every single night of the year, do you?”

  He looked blankly at her. “How—”

  “Remember, no secrets in Mayfield,” she repeated. “Anyway, Father Frank will have plenty of drunks to talk to. He always does.”

  They looked at each other.

  “Okay,” Jack said. “If he’s smoking ribs.”

  “He is,” Mary said. “See you at six.”

  Tom slowly got up from the counter. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re a good girl, Mary.” He kissed her on her forehead.

  “Yes, I am,” she said briskly. “Jack.”

  “Sis.” He nodded.

  His phone began to buzz in the pocket of his coat. He dug it out, checked the caller.

  It was Danny.

  “I need to take this,” he said, and he stepped through the store to the back door before answering. His heart was pounding.

  It was the first time anyone from his old world had spoken to him since the day he was tossed unceremoniously out of Grace Cathedral.

  “Danny,” he said. He noticed his hand was trembling. “Hey. Danny.”

  “I’m not supposed to be talking to you,” Danny said. “I’m not supposed to be in contact with you in any way at any time. They say you’re going to sue us, try to get your old job back.”

  Jack felt his shoulders slump. “Really?” he managed to get out. “Danny, I would never do that.”

  “All the same,” Danny said. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”

  “And yet you are,” Jack said. He stepped out into the sunlit section of the lumberyard and leaned against the south-facing wall where he wouldn’t be quite so chilly.

  “Jack, where are you now? Are you, you know, in your right mind? You said you were counting lumber. I thought—oh, man, I don’t know what I thought. Some elaborate scaffold to hang yourself.” He laughed nervously. “That’s why I called.”

  “I’m in Mayfield,” Jack said. “My dad brought me home. I’m working in the hardware store. Right now, I’m standing in the lumberyard.”

  Danny was silent. Jack checked to see if he had bars. Yes, three of them. It was Danny he didn’t have.

  “Danny?” he asked. The silence stretched a bit longer.

  “Wow,” Danny said at last. “Hardware?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “Listen, Danny. Have you heard from Tracy? Are she and Alison okay?”

  “Listen—” Danny began.

  “No,” Jack said. “I deserve to know at least that much. I’m pretty sure it’s against the law to keep Alison away from me. And I miss them. Both.” He did, he realized. His stomach was clenched with grief. “If it was you—Danny, if it was you, wouldn’t you be climbing the walls, worried out of your mind?”

  “Yeah,” Danny admitted. “But, Jack—”

  “Come on, Danny,” Jack said, pulling the phone away from his face and looking at it as though it had offended him. “I just want to know—”

  “I haven’t heard from them, Jack,” Danny said. “Why would they talk to me? And I don’t know where they are. I think that was part of the deal. They’d go away, they’d be quiet, and we’d take care of them. Protect them. The church pays the lawyers. That’s all I know.”

  “Protecting them from who? Me?” He knew the truth immediately. “No. Protecting them from the media.” He let out a disgusted whoosh of air. “Like Tracy would ever talk.” His stomach slowly rolled again. “Like I didn’t shame her so bad she’d ever want to talk about it.”

  “Your dad asked me where they were,” Danny said. “He’s called me more than once. A lot more. I told him I didn’t know anything.” Danny paused. “I don’t think he believes me.”

  “I believe you,” Jack said. “And I think you’d tell me something if you could.” He sighed. It was a dead end on finding his family, but at least not the end of his and Danny’s friendship. “Are you okay? What’s it like up there?”

  “It’s like riding a bucking bronco, Jack,” Danny said, and against his will, Jack smiled.

  “Like holding a live power line,” Jack said.

  “Like drinking from a fire hose,” Danny offered, and it sounded like he, too, was chuckling a little. All of those had been the comparisons Jack had made when Danny asked what it was like to be the Number One in a big church.

  “I haven’t been online to look,” Jack said. “I’ve been afraid to find out what’s happening, I guess. Are you bringing in an interim?”

  “Jack,” Danny said, and even without seeing him he knew he was shaking his head. “Who would they bring in? Billy Graham? The pope? No, they’re calling me acting lead pastor, we’ve brought in some administrative help, and we’re trying to figure out what to do next.”

  “Wow,” Jack said. He paused for a moment with a thought he could not let go of but was afraid to verbalize. “I don’t guess anybody’s said anything about me coming back.”

  “Some things have been said,” Danny admitted. “But nobody knew where you were. If you were ready to …” His voice trailed off.

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “I don’t know myself where I am. Or what I’m ready to do.” He pushed himself off the wall, started pacing across the lumberyard. “I miss it. I miss everyone. But I miss my family most of all.”

  “I wish I could help you, man,” Danny said. Both men were silent, and then Danny said, as though he’d made up his mind about something, “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Scout’s honor.”

  Both of them had been Eagle Scouts; it was not an idle promise.

  It was a solemn oath.

  “Danny, if you need anything—any help, whatever—you call me.” He stopped pacing. “I’m not so busy with my lumber that I can’t talk.” He smiled sadly. “Really. I’ll help you out any way I can.”

  “Are you preaching?” Danny asked. “You should be preaching.” He stopped, caught himself. “I mean, if you’re right with God.”

  Jack shook his head. “Really. You think I should be preaching?” Jack said. “No. Don’t answer that. No way. I’m done with that.” It was chilly out here without his coat. “Anyway. Thanks for calling. Thanks.”

  It was quiet on the other line, and for a second, Jack wondered if they were still connected. Then, spoken softly, the words, “You’re not going to sue the church?”

  That hurt his heart. “No,” he said. He shook his head. What made Martin Fox or anyone else think he would destroy the thing he’d built?

  Maybe that he’d done what he did without thinking what it might do to all the things he’d built?

  He shook his head again. If he wasn’t sure who he was these days, should he be surprised that nobody else knew?

  “No, Danny,” Jack said in a low voice. “I’m not
. Scout’s honor.”

  He hung up and walked back inside. His sister had left, but Tom was settled on his stool behind the cash register, reading what looked like an ancient Reader’s Digest. He used to buy them at garage sales, maybe he still did. At the register were also recent issues of People and Us. Jack’s mom used to read them, and he suspected that his father kept subscribing to them—and maybe even read them in slow times—to keep that connection.

  Tom looked up as the door opened, then commenced to reading again as Jack walked across the store to reclaim his clipboard. Behind him in one of the aisles he could hear Manny sweeping; he was always around, though rarely seen these days.

  “Did you know Napoleon was poisoned?” Tom said without looking up.

  “Is that the most current hypothesis?”

  Tom smiled, closed the magazine, checked the date. “It was as of the early 1980s,” he said.

  “A lot has changed since the eighties,” Jack said. He stood for a moment, looking for the right words. “Listen,” he said. “I was on the phone with Danny. Danny Pierce. From Seattle?”

  “Oh?” his father said without looking up.

  Where to start? With the most immediate. “He said you’d been trying to find Tracy.”

  “About time he called you back.”

  “Have you been asking him about Tracy? About where they are?”

  Tom simply nodded once, looked up, looked back down. “Of course I have,” he said.

  Of course.

  For an instant, Jack felt Tracy’s and Alison’s hands in his as he prepared to preach. It was the best part of his week, he realized now. Not because he was getting ready to speak, but because he was connected to them, drawing strength from them, claiming them.

  And they were claiming him.

  He felt tears burning at the corners of his eyes. He covered his face with his hand and turned away so his father couldn’t see. Jack had been taught at an early age not to cry—or at least not to let anyone see you doing it. In his family, men didn’t cry. Or in Mayfield, for that matter.