Roland pointed a finger at his friend. “Could you do it?”
“Of course I could. But we can’t all do it together, or it defeats the purpose.”
“I don’t like it.” Roland leaned on the crutch.
“I do.” Keefe’s soul stirred at the thought of the challenge.
Peter and Roland snapped their faces to Keefe.
He’d made up his mind. Peter could see it as initiation into Fire Starters, but Keefe had other reasons. He’d fast, pray, and find his answers. He’d push for the victory. He’d go all in. He’d find out for certain if God wanted him to join the Franciscans, then he’d talk to Papa with no hesitation.
He nodded, a grin stretching across his face while concern colored Roland’s expression and approval showed on Peter’s. “I like the idea. I’ll do it this weekend.”
CHAPTER 5
Regret pulsing through him, Jarret tucked the bag from the bookstore under his arm and stepped from the garage through the mud room and into the quiet house. Why had he given that girl his number? He knew nothing about her, not even her name. He’d have to start thinking up a few excuses for when she called. Maybe she’d just text and he could ignore it for a while. Not even two months had passed since Zoe had the baby, and since she’d dumped him. He wasn’t ready for a relationship.
Jarret glanced down the dim hallway to his right. All the doors were closed. Dim light from the failing sun traveled from the windows flanking the front door, which was practically on the opposite side of their huge house, and gave a dusty sheen to the hardwood floor on the far end of the hallway. Would Papa be in his study?
Not wanting to cross paths, Jarret strode toward the back of the house. Feeble beams of light streamed in between half-drawn drapes in the family room, obscuring the suit of armor in the corner and other antiques on the tables and shelves. It made the couch and recliner appear inviting though. He could easily curl up with the journal and examine his thoughts, write a few of them down. But someone might see him.
He pushed open the swinging doors to the dark great room. No one ever bothered opening those drapes.
As he rounded the corner, Nanny’s voice came from the kitchen. “...something loose to get around that cast and, besides, you’re still growing. You should start the school year with new clothes.”
“No, I—” Roland clipped off his answer. “The cast comes off soon. There’s no point in buying things to fit over it.”
“Well, what can you possibly wear to school besides sweat pants? Have you tried your old clothes on like I suggested?”
“No, I... I wear the stuff all the time. I’ve cut a few things. I have enough that fits.”
Nanny groaned. “Well, I’ll pick up a few things anyway. Maybe some polo shirts. You like those, right?”
Roland whined, then let out a weary, “Sure, thanks.”
Jarret laughed to himself. If Nanny picked up black or other dark colors, Roland would wear it. But otherwise...
Roland’s aluminum crutch tapped the floor, then a footfall. Jarret stopped, turned, and descended the steps as Roland emerged from the kitchen.
“Hey,” Roland said with a grumpy glance. He had a pile of clothes tucked under one arm and a single crutch under the other.
“Hey, yourself. Need help with that?” Jarret reached for the clothes.
“Na, I’m fine.” Roland turned red, the way he always did lately when Jarret tried to help him.
“It’s no big deal. I’m going upstairs too, and I don’t have a cast.”
“Ahh. School starts soon and I’ll still have the cast for a week, so I need to learn to get by.”
“Nanny bugging you about new clothes?” Jarret suppressed a grin.
“Yeah.” Roland lifted the crutch and his lame leg to the first step. “Why doesn’t she bother you and Keefe about clothes?”
Jarret kept pace with Roland, taking it a step at a time. “I let her get me things. And Keefe convinced her that he’s got enough.”
“I have enough.”
“Ah, you’re the baby. She’s gotta hold onto that.”
Roland shook his head. He reached the top step and gave Jarret a long look. “Are you going camping this year?”
Jarret winced as if struck. He couldn’t think of camping without thinking of Zoe and what he’d done that he shouldn’t have. And now he’d started something with that blond at the bookstore. Was he strong enough to date a girl and respect her?
He took a breath. “No.” He exhaled. “No camping for me.” He changed the subject. “You sure you’re gonna be okay once school starts, lugging books around and using crutches?”
The gray of Roland’s eyes seemed to shift in the shadows. He nodded. “Thanks. I’ll be fine. I can wear a backpack.” Another long look. “I appreciate the offer.”
Jarret shrugged. “What are brothers for?” He meant it, but it felt insincere after how harshly he’d treated Roland over the years. He wanted to make up for it, needed to make up for it. But if Roland didn’t want his help, he’d back off a bit. No point in making him uncomfortable.
Roland’s single crutch clunked as he moved down the dark hallway to his bedroom.
Jarret swung open his bedroom door to a semi-dark room and flipped on the light. He’d always liked the red, gold, and purple accents, but today they annoyed him, seemed too cheerful. Jarret closed the door behind him and dumped the contents of the bag onto his bed: a leather-bound journal, a pack of gum, and the silver pen.
Reluctant to begin and still irritated by all the colors in his room, he tossed the decorative pillows from his bed, kicked his sneakers off, and sat down. Leaning back against the headboard, Jarret placed the journal on his lap and clicked the pen.
The priest in Arizona had encouraged him to talk to his parish priest, once he got back home, and ask for spiritual direction. Whatever that meant. Jarret had put it off until today. Now he’d be seeing Father Carston forever. “I’d like to see you regularly,” Father Carston had said after Jarret’s confession. “But we can schedule a time and meet in the rectory instead. Okay? There’s always a line of people waiting for confession, and spiritual direction takes time.”
As he’d been pouring out his sins, Jarret hadn’t thought about all the others standing in line waiting to confess. “Yeah, sure,” Jarret had answered, wanting to say no. But he’d unloaded so much humiliating failure that he felt entirely vulnerable and would’ve agreed to anything.
Then Father had given him homework: start a journal. He wanted Jarret to write down the crossroads he faced during the day, the choices he made, and what he thought God might be telling him. Or whatever else he wanted to write. He wouldn’t have to share it with anyone, not even Father Carston.
So how was this going to help him?
Jarret ran a hand down the front of the journal, then untied the cord and opened it. No point in putting it off. If he delayed, he’d probably never do it. He’d wind up thinking about it on Sundays while Father gave his homily and forgetting once he got home.
Not sure what to write, Jarret drummed the page with the pen. What if someone found his journal? His muscles tightened at the thought. Peter’s face flashed in his mind. Jarret narrowed his eyes and clicked the pen.
“Read this and die,” he wrote on the first page in big angry letters. “This means you!”
Taking a breath to rid himself of the paranoid thoughts, Jarret thought back on the day since he’d fled the church. Did he want to write how his emotional state had him pulling off the road and throwing himself face down on the ground behind a granite outcropping? What would be the point? What was the point of any of this? Maybe he’d start from the bookstore and the crossroads he’d faced there.
Jarret positioned the pen and wrote:
Went to the bookstore today to get this journal. Trying to do what Father told me to do. And there’s this babe there, standing at the very display I was looking for. I did my best to avoid her. Not because I was worried about talking to her, and where that might lead�
�which maybe I should’ve been—but because I didn’t want her thinking I was buying a diary. Didn’t want to tarnish my cool image, I guess. But there I was talking to her anyway. And man was she—
Jarret stopped writing and glanced upward. Maybe he shouldn’t be putting those kinds of details in his journal. He drew a line through the uncompleted sentence and started a new one.
Guess it shocked me, wounded my ego, that she hadn’t heard of me, since we go to the same school. Then before I could stop myself, I’m writing my phone number on her arm.
Jarret’s cellphone rang. Glad to stop writing, he tossed the pen onto the bed and yanked the phone from the back pocket of his jeans. He hesitated before glancing at the caller ID. It wouldn’t be her, would it? So soon? What would he tell her?
He glanced, relieved to see Kyle’s name, and accepted the call.
“What’s up, man?” Jarret leaned against the headboard and stretched an arm overhead.
“Hey, dude. Haven’t seen you in like forever.”
“Ain’t been that long.” He’d been over at Kyle’s house once last week, but Kyle was right. They hadn’t done much together since Jarret got back from Arizona.
“Why don’t you come over tonight? We can get pizza and play Zombie Island or something.”
“Eh, I dunno.” All he could think of was the police officer who lived on Kyle’s street. He had no desire to see him so soon. Or ever again.
“We gotta do something before school starts back up. It’s our senior year, man. Party starts now and goes all the way to graduation.”
Jarret laughed. A strange sensation in his mind made him reluctant to commit to anything; it felt almost like he’d forgotten to do something. But he only felt that way around Kyle, and only lately.
“Seriously, dude. We’re having a bash this weekend, all weekend long. You gotta come. Or better yet, let’s have it at your most awesome house. What’dya say?”
“I dunno.” It would give him an excuse if the blond girl wanted to get together with him. And give him something to do. And just because his friends cussed and drank and “kicked up a row,” as Papa would say, didn’t mean he would. He could resist that temptation easily. “I guess we can. Not tonight though.”
“Okay, how ‘bout Friday? You open your house and we’ll bring the games and food. And girls?”
“No. Just guys. My father will be home. I don’t want him thinking he needs to babysit us.”
“Fine with me. We have more fun anyway.”
A noise outside his bedroom door snagged his attention: Keefe thumping up the stairs in his sandals. He could easily identify everyone in the house by the sound of their footfalls. Papa clomped and scuffed in his cowboy boots. Nanny hurried everywhere she went, her footfalls soft and quick. Mr. Digby shuffled along, in no hurry to get anywhere; kind of amazing how much he got done in one day. And now Roland had the distinctive thud of a single crutch and an occasional footfall. He used to walk undetected through the house.
Kyle was still talking but Jarret had stopped listening. “Look, I gotta go.”
Keefe knocked on Jarret’s bedroom door with the same beat he always used, but the intensity of it signaled that he had something on his mind.
“Come on in,” Jarret hollered, stuffing his phone in his back pocket.
The door flung open. Keefe, wearing jeans and a Christian rock-band t-shirt, stepped in and closed the door behind him. “Hey, what’s up?” His gaze traveled from Jarret to the journal on the bed.
Jarret leaned forward and flipped it shut. His neck warmed with embarrassment. Keefe wouldn’t care one way or another and Jarret had never worried about his image with him. Why should it bother him?
“Nothing,” Jarret answered, grinning, knowing he’d been caught and would have to explain.
Keefe smiled too and approached the bed. “You want to go for a ride, take two horses out?”
Relieved that Keefe didn’t bring up the journal, Jarret scooted off the bed and picked it up. “Gotta find someplace for this first.”
“I’ll tell you where I put mine.”
“You’ve got one?”
“Sure.” Keefe went to the dresser and slid a drawer out. “Sometimes I hide it in there. It fits okay if you press it against the back, right between the wood slats that the drawer rests against.” Bending over, he peered into the dark cubbyhole. “But I’m usually fine with hiding it between the mattress and the box spring.” He shoved the drawer back in place and straightened.
“Works for me.” Jarret lifted the edge of the bedspread and hid the journal. Maybe having it there would remind him to write in it. He’d think of it every time he lay down.
Jarret grabbed his knee-high brown leather riding boots from the walk-in closet and followed Keefe to his bedroom. “So what do you write in yours?” He figured Keefe wrote deep, spiritual things, especially since his “God moment” in Italy. Keefe had told Jarret a bit about it, but Jarret knew he’d held some things back. As much as he hated them growing apart, Jarret had made it happen when he rejected Keefe last year because of his new faith. They’d moved past that now, but some distance remained between them.
“Oh, nothing important.” Keefe swung open his bedroom door. “Just thoughts and prayers I make up.”
“You make up prayers?” Jarret followed Keefe two paces into his bedroom and stopped, stunned. The bed was in the wrong place, against the wall with the door. The dresser and desk were in the complete opposite corner of the room. And what happened to the old entertainment center? And something else was missing. A chair? What else?
“Well, it’s not poetry or anything.” Keefe strolled through his half-empty bedroom. Then he spoke from inside the closet. “It’s just what I want to say to God, or what I want to ask Him. Sometimes I look back and see how He answered my prayers.”
Jarret sat on Keefe’s bed and shoved a foot into one of his riding boots. His gaze drifted to a stack of books, some new but others seriously old, on the otherwise uncluttered dresser. They’d once had their rooms arranged the same but with different color schemes: Jarret bold purple, gold, and red, Keefe with shades of green and blue.
“What’s up with your room? Hired a re-decorator?”
Bent over and stuffing one foot into a riding boot, Keefe poked his head from his closet. “Oh. Yeah. I was going to ask you to help me, but it actually wasn’t so bad. Where’d you go this morning?”
Jarret laughed to himself, amused by Keefe’s diversionary tactic. Keefe had gotten rid of the TV, TV table... and all his electronic games? He’d kept one chair. A Bible lay in it now.
Over the past few months, he’d given away toys and decorations that he’d held onto since childhood. Jarret had snagged a few items that had sentimental value. He’d felt a stab to his heart, watching Keefe give away the rest. But Keefe could do what he wanted with his life and his stuff. Jarret would support him. No more trying to control him. Just because they were twins didn’t mean they had to do everything the same.
Jarret tucked his jeans into his boots and zipped them up. Then he stood and looked himself over in the mirror, above the dresser on the wrong wall. Having forgotten to tie his hair back up, he dug a hair band from a front pocket and pulled his hair into a ponytail.
Keefe scuffed from the closet to the dresser in old black riding boots and stood beside Jarret. They stared at each other’s reflections in the mirror. They looked less identical today than ever: Keefe with his cropped hair, glasses, and casual clothes, Jarret with his long curly hair—pulled back now—contacts and designer shirt.
“Ready?” Keefe smiled but his eyes spoke of trouble.
JARRET’S JOURNAL
After that night in the canyon, I felt your love,
the love of my Lord,
Wrapped around me like a blanket keeping me safe,
Like a shroud hiding me from temptation.
For many days after, I simply had to sit still
and think about it.
And it all fl
ooded back.
The sound of the wind whistling around the canyon,
The scent of the dusty desert air,
the call of a distant coyote,
The rustle of dry vegetation
from the rim of the canyon wall.
I was right back there, experiencing it all again.
I remembered the breeze cooling the heat of my anger and the fear of helplessness.
More than all that, I saw You again in my mind.
Your glance stirred me to the depths of my soul
as it had that night.
I felt your love.
CHAPTER 6
In the cool shade of the stable, Keefe adjusted the cinch strap of an old leather saddle on Roland’s jet-black horse, Bueno. The aroma of horse sweat, manure, and hay took Keefe back... Some of his fondest memories came from the leisurely rides the family had taken years ago, before Mama left them for heaven. But most of the time, he and Jarret had gone riding without anyone else.
His thoughts stirred up wistful yearnings for the past. Sometimes they set out for adventure, not keeping to the regular paths and making frequent stops to explore. They often sorted out their muddled thoughts and emotions on the trail. Jarret especially. It seemed easier for him to have a deep conversation from the saddle than anywhere else.
“Ready, girl?” Keefe rubbed Bueno’s neck and led her from the stable.
Late afternoon shadows covered all but the turrets and battlements of their castle-like house, giving it a story-book quality that deepened Keefe’s nostalgic mood. He shoved a boot into the stirrup, forced himself up with one arm and leg, and mounted with a grunt.
“Let’s go find Jarret,” he said to Bueno, getting her moving with a gentle squeeze of his thighs.
Jarret had already led Desert toward the trail behind the stables. With a nudge to Bueno’s sides, Keefe worked on catching up. As much as he wanted to share his tangled thoughts with Jarret, he wasn’t sure he should. How would Jarret feel about him taking off for the Franciscans’ three-day retreat? How did Jarret honestly feel about Keefe wanting to join the Franciscans for life?
Standing Strong Page 4
