Standing Strong

by Theresa Linden

  Jarret marched to the kids on the floor to help get their video game started. On his way, he glimpsed two things at the same time, both stirring up his ire. The medieval sword no longer hung over the fireplace, and his father would have a fit if he saw two of the five video games on the coffee table. Jarret considered saying something about it, but fear of ruining his image kept his mouth shut. He could find another way to take care of it.

  “Gimme the remote.” Jarret dropped down on one knee behind Sherman. He pressed a few buttons and got the game on in seconds, some old monster game. Aside from stylized gore, it wasn’t too bad. As he straightened, he snatched the games his father wouldn’t want to see and stuffed them behind the back cushion of the couch.

  He turned his attention to the arguing kids on the other side of the family room. “Get the sword back on the wall. Don’t touch the antiques.”

  “Aw, come on, bro,” Jaxson said, swinging his arm out from behind him and brandishing the sword. His over-sized basketball shirt swished with his adept movements. He’d probably kick butt in a sword fight, and if the party were outside, Jarret would suggest it. He loved fencing and relished the idea of showing up every one of these guys. Most of them would need instruction though, which he’d find more annoying than fun. Most seemed to lack coordination.

  “Your crib be phat,” Jaxson said, relinquishing the sword to Jarret. “Where’d your peeps get all these old things?”

  “Eh, my father collects,” Jarret said as if it were no big deal, though it gave him a sense of pride.

  “Nice.”

  “Problem solved,” Kyle shouted as he backed through the swinging doors that separated the family room from the great room. Walking with a confident air, he carried a bottle of juice, a two-liter of clear pop, a stack of plastic cups, and a plate of jalapeno poppers, all on one tray. A fried food aroma accompanied him. He set the tray on the sofa table and took something from a front pocket of his jeans.

  “What problem is that?” Jarret said with sarcasm.

  Grinning, Kyle slipped the top cup off the stack and darted into the rec room. He returned, pouring beer into the cup.

  “Watch.” With dramatic flair, he set the can down, produced a little bottle of red food color and squeezed a couple of drops into the beer. “Walla! I’m drinking punch.” He proceeded to bring the cup to his lips and chug his new creation.

  Doubting that would deceive Papa, Jarret shook his head and blew out a breath.

  A heartbeat later, a line formed next to Kyle and wrapped around the couch. Colt handed cans of beer to Kyle, who then poured them into cups and added red food coloring.

  Jarret backed away, bumped an end table, and flopped onto a couch. Every time a can cracked open, he winced. He wished the sound of the gaming music, explosions, and bleeps covered it. The faintest image of Jesus hovered in his mind, but not the way he’d seen him in the canyon. Now his hands were bound to a pillar, his bleeding back exposed. Every time a can opened, the whip cracked again.

  Someone plopped down next to Jarret on the couch, jarring him from thought.

  “So who’s this, your mom?” C.W. held an old framed picture of Mama and Papa.

  Not interested in dialog, Jarret snatched it from him and placed it with care on the sofa table behind the couch.

  “So I see the Mexican in you and Keefe, what with your swarthy skin. That’s what your mom was, right? Mexican? So what happened with Roland?” C.W. tapped the screen of his cellphone. “That boy is white.” He emphasized the last word.

  Jarret sighed and shook his head. Another can cracked open.

  “Hey, dude, check this out.” C.W. shoved his cellphone in front of Jarret’s face. “I saw this babe at the county fair. She didn’t even know I took her picture. Check her out. Didn’t know anyone was watching. Got some other pics on here too.”

  Growing numb to his surroundings, Jarret glanced at C.W. and his greasy blond hair parted down the middle, his stained jeans that he probably wore while changing the oil in his car, and then the phone in his hand. And the image of the girl that had no idea he’d taken her picture.

  Jarret snatched the phone and deleted the picture. Then he tossed the phone to the couch and got up.

  “What’d you do that for?” C.W. whined.

  He should’ve said it aloud, but his answer remained in his mind. Don’t take pictures like that of girls.

  Laughter, cigarette smoke, thumping music, and loud taunting voices spewed from the rec room. Kyle no longer served beer from the sofa table, but a few full glasses sat between a lamp and the almost-empty plate of poppers. Pool balls cracked as Jarret stepped into the rec room. If Papa came around, he’d be ticked off. Jarret needed to make everyone leave. The words rolled around Jarret’s mind but disappeared like pool balls sinking into pockets.

  Colt stared at his beer in the light of the fluorescent bar sign. Another kid shouted obscenities at him, offended about something... seeming like he needed anger management. Kyle leaned over the table for a shot.

  Disgusted with himself and not wanting to even see Kyle, Jarret snatched the pack of cigarettes and lighter from the arm of the couch and left the room.

  In the living room, Sherman and another kid flipped through games, probably looking for the ones Jarret had hidden. Someone had taken the sword off the wall again, and the shield too. Papa had had the shield custom made with their family logo on it.

  Jarret strode past the shouting and laughter, the gamers and fighters, and out through the veranda. The door closed with a click behind him.

  Standing on the cement steps, he gazed out toward the stables, the row of trees behind them, and the orange tinged clouds in the darkening sky. His ears still rang from the music and voices inside. He tapped a cigarette from the pack, surprised to see his hands trembling.

  Then his mind tried to wrap around a thought, but it flitted away. He’d forgotten something. But what?

  Steadying his hands, he lit the cigarette and took a long drag off it. The fresh, minty menthol taste surprised him. He shouldn’t be starting up the bad habit again. No, he just needed one cigarette. He’d never touch them again after this. Finding a comfortable position on the steps, he exhaled the pungent smoke and peered through it at the line of trees that ran behind the stables.

  A warm breeze carried his thoughts back to the canyon in Arizona. The cigarette smoke kept him from smelling the fresh air. Not that it mattered. The scent of the green woods around him didn’t compare to the arid desert scent, wouldn’t help him go back there in his mind, wouldn’t get him any closer to remembering.

  Jarret rubbed a hand up his chest and rested it on his opposite shoulder. Jesus, come back.

  Desperate for a connection to that life-changing moment, Jarret closed his eyes and tried bringing images to his mind. The darkening sky. The high canyon walls. The dry creek down the middle of the canyon and rough rocks everywhere. He’d slipped trying to walk over them, trying to run after he’d heard Roland’s desperate call.

  Jarret’s stomach twisted. Roland had lain there in such pain, his leg broken and bleeding, his face drained of color. The harsh words that Jarret had spoken replayed in his mind. His cruel confession of everything he’d ever done against him.

  “I don’t care,” Roland had said. “I still forgive you.”

  The thought of Roland’s unswerving mercy struck Jarret with a little stabbing pain in his heart. Jarret had caved in then, and repented. And then He came... the Lord.

  Jarret sifted through images in his mind, struggling to bring the memory back. The ache, the longing in his heart magnified, but he couldn’t regain any of it. He’d felt it so vividly for two weeks after it had happened. He should’ve gone to Father Carston as soon as he’d returned home from Arizona, just as the priest had told him to do. He’d put it off for three weeks. Maybe that explained why the memory had faded.

  Or maybe he just didn’t deserve it.

  He’d promised then to change. He’d wanted it with every cell an
d fiber of his being. If the feelings of mercy, forgiveness, and love faded, and the feelings of the closeness of the Lord left him, how could he remain faithful?

  A horse whinnied, maybe even Jarret’s horse.

  He heard Papa’s deep voice in his mind. “Cowboy up, Jarret.”

  Jarret took another drag off the cigarette and gazed out at the trees. A single cricket chirped. The trees swayed in a silent breeze. Yeah, with or without consolation, he’d just have to cowboy up. He could do this. He had to do this.

  JARRET’S JOURNAL

  For days I remembered every one of Your words

  And the sound of Your voice,

  how it had reverberated through me.

  Your love and mercy overwhelmed me,

  Dropping me again to my knees

  Whenever my mind took me back to that night.

  You love me and accept me through and through,

  Personally and individually,

  despite my failings.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Blessed is he who takes no offense at me.”

  The verse came unbidden, and Keefe’s mood sank a level. Before Jarret had given him a ride to Peter’s, he’d said a prayer, opened the Bible, and dropped a finger to the page. It had landed on that verse, Luke 7:23. Maybe he hadn’t done it right. When Saint Francis and Bernard had done it, they’d gone to Mass first and then had the priest open the Bible.

  This message didn’t seem to apply to his situation. In fact, it bothered him and he wished he could shake it from his mind and pull up another one. With all the Bible reading he’d done lately, he had several memorized. Why had it opened to that verse? Was he just being superstitious by expecting God to answer him that way? Nah, the Bible was God’s word. Why wouldn’t He answer Keefe through it?

  Though he strolled at a leisurely pace, he soon emerged from the canopy of branches and reached the riverbank. The sky, half shrouded with puffy white clouds—the lower edges tinted orange—had turned a richer blue and colored the trees on the opposite side of the river in soothing shades of green. Rippling waves moved past, gentle and mesmerizing. So beautiful.

  Kicking an occasional rock and letting his canvas bag swing at his side, Keefe walked along the bank, heading in the direction of the waterfall. His mind returned to the story about how St. Francis spent forty entire days on a deserted island with nothing more to eat than a bit of bread. He’d found a hiding place between shrubs and trees. And there he’d prayed and contemplated heavenly things.

  Keefe regarded the trees on the opposite side of the river again, turning his heart to God. The wispy leaves of a willow tree hung in the river, swaying with the current. The lime green leaves of an aspen fluttered in the breeze. A bushier tree with darker leaves had a sprinkling of yellow already, probably not turning yet, though summer would soon end. The trees would soon become an artist’s palette of colors, some turning orange and yellow right away, others clinging to their green leaves for as long as possible.

  Keefe wanted to cling to nothing of his own ideas or goals. He wanted to let go and let God. Let God transform him from the ordinary into something he could not even imagine. He wanted to dry up his own desires and live for God alone, going through the world as the Franciscans do, as pilgrims and strangers, taking nothing with him but Christ crucified.

  Sometime later, a dirt ridge rose to his right and the sound of rushing water grew louder with every step. Pink now colored the sky ahead, while purplish blue hung above.

  Keefe stopped and picked up two branches in his path. He’d need them and a lot more to get a fire started.

  Several minutes later, the rushing white waterfall came into view. Awed by the beauty, Keefe gazed at it as he strolled closer with his armful of branches. Then he found a smooth area on the riverbank and set the branches near it. The canvas bag slid off his shoulder, so he placed it beside the woodpile. Grabbing fist-sized and larger rocks, he made a circular border for the campfire he’d build later tonight. He’d need to gather more firewood and kindling before sundown.

  THE DOOR SWUNG OPEN and Dillon stepped outside, worry showing on his dark face and the slant of his thin black brows. “Yo, bro, we got us an emergency.” He never spoke above a whisper, not even now, but his tone said this was serious.

  Jarret crushed out his second cigarette and tossed it behind a bush. “What happened?”

  “Don’t know, bro. Something’s wrong with Nate. First I thought he had a bad case of acne.”

  Not sure if he should worry, Jarret jumped up and followed Dillon back into the house through the veranda. “Yeah, he’s always kind of...” Jarret didn’t bother finishing the sentence. He’d been lucky to have nothing more than a zit here or there. Nate hadn’t had that luck.

  “Right. But those suckers started springing up everywhere.” He gestured rhythmically with both hands, indicating his arms and neck.

  “You mean like hives?”

  “Don’t know man. I’m thinking we should call 9-1-1.”

  Amidst blaring music and air hazy with cigarette smoke, everyone stood around the couch that divided the living room in two. Why hadn’t anyone done anything? Several kids looked at Jarret as he neared, panic and confusion in their eyes. He’d always acted like he knew everything, so now they expected him to know what to do.

  “Sherman, take Nate out to my car. Now. I’m parked out front.” Jarret pointed to the swinging doors that led to the great room and the hallway that ran to the front door. “And you...” He turned to Dillon, the only kid here he’d trust in a crisis. “...get everyone to clean up and go home. Don’t leave beer cans behind.”

  Dillon gave what looked like a confident nod.

  As Sherman helped Nate to his feet, Jarret’s heart kicked into high gear and his mouth went dry.

  Angry red hives covered Nate’s face like a bad burn.

  “Itches, man.” Nate hugged himself and winced. “I think—I think—my throat’s closing up.” His voice came out strained.

  “You’ll be okay.” Jarret patted his shoulder. “Try to relax. We’ll get you to the emergency room.”

  DRAINED FROM THE SURGE of adrenaline he’d experienced as he sped to the hospital, Jarret slumped in the driver’s seat of his Chrysler and gazed at the lighted ER entrance. He had dropped Nate and Sherman off at the door and parked across the street. He’d go inside—as soon as he calmed down.

  He hated all this. Since returning from Arizona, his days had been peaceful. He should never have invited his friends over. Like him, they couldn’t stay out of trouble. Had Dillon gotten everyone out of the house? What about all the beer? Had Papa seen anything? Staying in his study like that, seemed like he wanted to trust Jarret.

  A jolt of self-recrimination had him slamming the steering wheel. Man, he’d blown it. Again.

  Jarret took a breath.

  Lights flashed in his peripheral vision, an ambulance racing toward the hospital. Should Jarret have called an ambulance? Nah. Nate would be fine. They probably had him checked in already and had given him some Benadryl or a shot of steroids by now. Probably wouldn’t discharge him for hours though. Maybe his parents—

  Oh, yeah. Jarret stuffed a hand into his back pocket and retrieved his phone. He’d told Nate he’d call his parents. Unable to speak above a whisper, Nate had kept shaking his head and waving his hand. But his parents had to know, and he was in no condition to call them.

  Two seconds of scrolling and Jarret found the number. With a sigh, he pressed “call.” While the phone rang, he lowered the driver’s side window and rested his arm on the frame.

  Voices traveled from across the street, from a couple walking toward the glowing ER door. Bugs swarmed around a nearby streetlight.

  A woman answered. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Lynch?”

  “Yes?”

  “Uh, hey...” Jarret shifted in his seat, uneasiness rattling him. He’d never met Nate’s parents. Never even seen them. Had Nate ever mentioned Jarret’s name to them? “This is Ja
rret West, Nate’s friend. We’re, uh, at the hospital.”

  “Who’s up at the hospital?” Her curious tone transformed to one of hard concern.

  “Nate. We took him to the ER. He had some kind of reaction, broke out in hives. I’m sure he’ll be okay but—”

  “Who is this again?” Now she sounded skeptical, as if she couldn’t believe this had anything to do with her son.

  “Jarret. Jarret West.” He switched his phone from one sweaty hand to the other. “I just dropped Nate off at the ER. Sherman’s with him and I’m on my way inside. Just wanted to call you first.”

  “No, Nate went to Kyle’s house tonight.”

  Did she think he had her son confused with some other kid? “Yeah, well, they came over to my house. Kyle too.”

  “But Nate’s not allowed over at your house.”

  Jarret jerked back, bumping his head on the headrest. So she had heard of him. Was his reputation so bad that kids weren’t allowed over to his house? What had she heard? Had to have been about the Halloween party last October. Maybe it had to do with his and Keefe’s sword fight. Or maybe she knew about Zoe and didn’t want her son hanging out with a bad influence.

  Jarret rubbed his forehead. “Well, I just wanted to let you know. I’m going in now to see how he’s doing.” He raised his window and waited a second for a reply. A man and woman spoke in the background but nothing he could make out.

  Before he ended the call, his phone buzzed, receiving a text. Couldn’t be Keefe because he hadn’t taken his phone. He probably should’ve. What if something went wrong?

  One hand to the door handle, he glanced at the message and his stomach clenched.

  Hi. It’s me. The girl from the bookstore.

  Two heartbeats later, another message. My name’s Chantelle. How r u?

  Jarret sucked in a breath and lifted his gaze to the dark parking lot. Chantelle? How do you even pronounce that?

  He exhaled as he stuffed the phone away and got out of the car. The girl—Chantelle—had said she wasn’t interested, so he thought he’d dodged that bullet.