Dominion

by Randy Alcorn

  “I just can’t take this,” Clarence said, leaning against Geneva on the couch. “I’m at the end of my rope.”

  “Maybe, Son, that’s just where he wants you.”

  Dani gazed through the portal. “Daddy’s right,” she said to Torel. “It was Elyon’s appraisal of my life on earth that mattered, and only his.”

  “That is true,” Torel said. “I do not understand how anyone could think otherwise.”

  “In the Shadowlands I wanted other people to like me,” Dani said, “to approve of me. And sometimes I held back from doing what Elyon might want me to because I didn’t think others would understand or approve. Now I realize it didn’t matter. Only the Carpenter’s approval matters. I wish Antsy could see that.”

  “Your brother does not realize men make a poor audience, for they do not see or hear clearly,” Torel said. “They can applaud what is ugly and wrong. They can deplore what is beautiful and right. Elyon is the Judge. He is the audience of One. He knows men by their character, not merely their reputation.”

  Dani looked at her brother, head in his hands, depressed and disillusioned and inconsolable. She prayed he would learn that what mattered now was exactly what would matter always—God’s appraisal of his life.

  Clarence got up from the chair, seeing the light still on in Jonah’s room, knowing he was working on a project. “I need to be with him,” he said to Geneva. She smiled and nodded. Clarence knocked on his door. Jonah opened it, surprised to see his father.

  “This is your project for the science fair, right?” Clarence said. “What are you workin’ on?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “What do you mean, nothin’? Tell me. I really want to know.”

  Jonah looked at him as if he wasn’t sure. He went over to his desk and got a round dark plastic object about a foot long, with an attached electrical cord and a three-inch metal point coming out the end. The point looked like a giant nail.

  “What’s that?”

  “An induction coil,” Jonah said.

  “What’s it do?”

  Jonah plugged in the cord to the wall outlet. He reached the point out and touched Clarence’s arm. An electric arc looking like a miniature lightning bolt jumped out, and Clarence’s arm flexed out of his control. The surprise made the shock seem much stronger than it was.

  “Whoa! What is that thing?”

  Jonah smiled. “Fifty thousand volts.”

  “Fifty thousand? Isn’t that …a lot of volts?”

  “It’s low current. That’s why it doesn’t kill you.”

  “So, what’s your project? The electric chair?”

  “No. We’re doing a unit on electricity. At first, my project related to lightning. I was going to do a paper on it and use the induction coil to model lightning. But then I got these spectrum tubes.” He picked up one of three thin glass tubes about ten inches long. “This tube contains neon. The others are mercury and hydrogen.”

  He put the induction coil up to about half an inch from the wire at one end of the tube and the miniature lightning struck it. Suddenly the tube glowed a reddish orange.

  “Wow,” Clarence said. “What makes the color?”

  “It’s the true color of the gas. The charge just brings it out. Every element has its own color fingerprint. That’s what my project’s about.”

  He touched the induction coil to the mercury tube and it turned violet. “You take this spectroscope,” Jonah handed it to his father, “and it shows you the exact signature.” Clarence looked through, seeing a violet line to the inside, a yellow line to the outside and a green line in between.

  “That’s the true color of mercury,” Jonah said. “Each element is different. The induction coil lets you see things as they really are.”

  “I’m impressed.” Clarence reached for the induction coil.

  “There’s an on/off switch on the power supply,” Jonah said. “You—”

  Clarence reached it up Jonah’s loose T-shirt, just above his bottom, and flipped the switch.

  “Ow! Hey!” Jonah grabbed it back and shocked Clarence a few times. The father wrestled it out of the son’s hand and unplugged it. They scuffled on the bedroom floor, wrestling, giggling, and laughing, then finally embracing.

  Geneva stood outside the room, peeking in the cracked door. She smiled and wiped her eyes. It had been a long time.

  Clarence read the expression on Jake’s face as his friend handed him the open newspaper. Clarence looked fearfully at page seven of the Metro section.

  North Portland resident Clarence Abernathy has been accused of statutory rape—having consensual sexual relations with a minor—as well as substance abuse and delivering a controlled substance to a minor. The teenager’s identity is being withheld because she is a minor. A grand jury is considering whether there is sufficient evidence to bring the case to trial. Abernathy is a columnist for the Oregon Tribune.

  There was no byline, but Clarence knew who covered the police beat and hung around the precinct like a vulture, circling the press board. Dan Ferrent hadn’t even waited for the arraignment to get out a smear job on his colleague.

  Clarence marched toward Metro, Jake half skipping to keep up with his long strides. Reporters moved to the side as if they were the Red Sea and Clarence was Moses.

  “What’s with this?” Clarence asked Ferrent, slamming down the newspaper and pointing at the article.

  “Hey, I’m just doing my job.”

  “A hack job, you mean.”

  “The Tribune pays me to do this. I’m assigned to the press board at the precinct. When a police report is complete, it becomes public knowledge. It’s fair game for the press. That’s why they call it the press board.”

  “I know why they call it the press board, Ferret.” Clarence enjoyed mispronouncing the name. “But it doesn’t mean you have to print whatever you see up there.”

  “Look, Abernathy, I have nothing against you, but this is what we do for everybody, doesn’t matter who. I don’t think we should play favorites. Frankly, by making it so short and putting it on page seven, we did you a favor.”

  “A favor? Why didn’t you ask me about the charge? Give me a chance to defend myself. Isn’t that standard journalistic practice?”

  “Not in this case. It was just a brief factual report of the charges, that’s all. It didn’t seem the time or place to get into counter-charges. Besides, I assumed your lawyer wouldn’t let you talk. They usually don’t.”

  “Factual? The accusation’s a lie. And it’s not your job to assume anything. I would have talked. No matter what my lawyer said.”

  “Besides,” Ferrent continued, “I ran it past my editor and he got it cleared at the top. So your gripe is with the big boys.”

  “Berkley? He approved this?”

  “Don’t say I said that. Somebody up on top. I just know it went through.”

  “You’ve tried and hung me. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

  “It still holds. That’s why the article says ‘accused.’ It doesn’t say ‘guilty.’”

  “Nobody remembers your fine little distinctions. They just remember the paper links me with statutory rape and drugs.”

  “That’s not my problem. Hey, if the mayor was accused of rape or murder, don’t you think the paper would cover it?”

  “So all it takes is one person, one messed-up high school girl, and she can bring down anyone in this city?”

  “Not if they have an alibi.”

  “You still like to go fishing by yourself out on the Deschutes, Ferrent? Then what’s your alibi for all the crimes going on in the city? You have no alibi. That doesn’t make you guilty, does it?”

  “Face it, man,” Ferrent said, “you admit you took a teenage girl to a bar?”

  “I didn’t take her to a bar. She called me, said she had to talk. We didn’t drink, eat, or socialize. And I never touched her.”

  “Hope you can prove that.”

  “How can I prove wha
t didn’t happen? It’s impossible. Bet you can’t prove to me you didn’t do the hit and run over on Alder yesterday, can you? In fact, bet you can’t prove you didn’t do the shooting that killed my sister and my niece.”

  “Relax Clarence, you’re getting agitated—”

  “Agitated? You don’t know agitated. This is nothing. You keep pushin’ me, man, you’re gonna see agitated. What do I have to do, hire someone to tail me everywhere so I can prove I’m innocent of everything some jerk might accuse me of? What communist country do you live in, anyway? I thought this was America!”

  “Look, Abernathy, the whole thing does sound pretty bad, you have to admit.”

  “You’re pathetic,” he said to Ferrent. “I think I’ll write you up in my column. I’ll call your ex-wife. Bet she can give me some juicy stuff. And you know what you can use this article for.”

  Clarence slammed down the newspaper and turned around. He saw dozens of people staring at him. He felt certain he knew what they were thinking about him.

  Jake led Clarence to the lunchroom, over to a corner. He’d never seen his friend so agitated.

  “Jake, I can’t believe this is happening. It only takes one person, one accusation, to ruin your life. I’ll never be able to prove I’m innocent. No one will ever believe me.”

  “Geneva believes you. Your kids believe you. Janet and Carly and I believe you. So does everybody who really knows you.”

  “But I’ve worked so hard to build my reputation. And overnight, it’s gone. It’s just gone. People aren’t ever going to trust me. I can’t understand why they’d believe accusations against a man just because they’re in a newspaper.”

  Clarence suddenly thought about Ollie. He had believed exactly what the Trib said about Ollie. He felt like vomiting.

  Clarence drove home with none of the anticipation of the weekend he usually carried on Friday afternoons. He pulled into his driveway and sat in the car, trying to regain composure before seeing Geneva and the kids.

  He opened the front door and a flushed Geneva came out to him. “I’m so sorry,” he said. Clarence put his arms around her, his large body drawing strength from her small one. “Thanks for standing by me.”

  “Of course I’ll stand by you. Always. We’re in the hard part. It’ll get better, baby. It has to.” She sighed. “Bad as it is, I’d rather have it like this and know you need me than have it like it was and know you didn’t.”

  She felt him shaking, and somehow it both comforted and frightened her.

  “Let’s go to the Bible study potluck tonight,” she said.

  “How can I face them? You should see how everybody looks at me now.”

  “They helped raise bail for you,” Geneva said. “You owe it to them to be there. Besides, you belong with your Christian brothers and sisters. You need them, whether or not you know it.”

  Clarence walked into the living room and saw Jonah doing his homework. He didn’t look up. Ty walked in the front door and went to his room. No eye contact. The weight on Clarence’s shoulders felt even heavier.

  Everyone at Bible study was friendly but unusually quiet. The laughter was subdued. John Edwards sat next to Clarence on one side, Geneva on the other.

  “Well,” John said, “there’s no use pretending this is a normal evening. Our brother Clarence and sister Geneva are here. We’ve been praying for them. I’m really glad they came.” Heads nodded, and Clarence heard many expressions of agreement. “I said it to you personally, Clarence, but I want to say it in front of the whole group. I’m with you. I believe you. You can count on me.”

  “Me too,” said Bill, the white southerner, Maggie nodding. “And us,” Sal said. “Same here,” said Duane, Karen indicating her agreement. Ray’s wife nodded, her husband’s absence a testimony to their commitment to Clarence.

  He looked around the room as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I… want to thank you for raising money to get me…out of jail.” His internal dam managed to hold back the tears. “I’ve lost my sister and my niece. And now… I feel like I’ve lost everything.” Clarence leaned forward. Geneva rested her head on his bowed back.

  “You haven’t lost us,” John said. “I want to say something to the whole group. When Clarence was released from jail yesterday, I went over to his house to see him. I asked myself what I’d want people to do if I was accused of something like this. First, I’d want them to ask me straight out, so there were no doubts lurking in their minds. So I asked Clarence, ‘Brother, did you make any sexual advances to this girl?’ He said, ‘Absolutely not. God is my witness.’ Well, I believe him. Everything I know about him makes me accept his word.

  “Now, I’ll say this too. If Clarence had told me he was guilty, but repentant, I would have stood by him too. Sure, he’d have had to face the consequences, but he’d still have needed our forgiveness and support. But he’s not guilty. And that money we helped raise for bail, that was an investment in our family. You’re part of our family, Abernathys. That’s what the church is all about.”

  “And there’s more where that came from,” Bill said. “If this goes to court you’ll have a lot of legal fees. Maggie and I have talked about it. If you end up needing the money, we can take out a second mortgage on our house. It was Maggie’s idea.”

  Clarence excused himself and went to the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, his face buried in his hands, trying not to make any noise. Finally, he forced himself to get up, wash his face, and go back to the living room.

  “This week I wrote down all the racial stereotypes I learned as a kid,” John said. Obviously they’d decided to move on, and Clarence was grateful. “Maybe you heard colored people all had big feet and were great dancers. Well, here’s some of what I heard. Mexicans all carried switchblades, Indians were born alcoholics, Irish were drunks with bad tempers, Germans were stubborn raw-meat eaters, Catholics never took baths and were to blame for all the world’s problems because they never practiced birth control. Japanese were squinty-eyed devils, Jews were just out to rip you off and those dirty Hebes actually started World War II so they could control the army surplus business after the war. Chinamen came with a laundry basket attached to their navel, and Swedish people had hollow skulls but were strong and more honest than most whites.”

  “Well, at least you got it right about the Swedes,” Sal said, pointing at Duane. Everybody laughed, especially Duane.

  “I guess my point is,” John said, “maybe some of you grew up hearing the word nigger. Well, in my hood we not only called each other nigger, but I heard people called wops, dagos, micks, kikes, shvartzes, harpies, krauts, nips, japs, chinks, you name it. Nobody’s got a corner on racism—everybody doles it out and everybody gets hit with it. True, when you’re not in the power position—as minorities aren’t— your racism can’t have as detrimental an effect on society. But it can sure destroy you and your family.

  “Tonight we’re going to study John 4. If you did your background reading, you know racial hatred was as common in the ancient world as it is today. The Samaritans were half-breed Jews who intermarried with heathen people the Jews thought were inferior. Jews detested Samaritans, and Samaritans detested Jews. In John 4 Jesus steps over on the wrong side of the tracks and reaches out to a Samaritan woman, who had a bad reputation. If you don’t know somebody, you assume the worst about him—especially if you’ve been told the worst. But when you reach out to someone, like Jesus does, you get to know him. You love him just like Jesus loved this woman. You talk honestly to people you love, and you do whatever you can to help them.”

  While everyone else looked down at their Bibles, Clarence looked up at all the faces in the room. As bad as he felt, he knew Geneva was right. This was where he belonged.

  “Ray?” Ollie asked. “Listen, Clarence is sitting here. I’ll punch on the speakerphone. Okay, we can both hear you now.”

  “How are you, Clarence?” Ray asked.

  “Okay,” he lied. “Missed you at Bible stu
dy.”

  “Yeah, I missed you all too. Here’s the scoop. I was there at 12:30 when the license plate was delivered to the Rafer Thomas home. Mr. Thomas took it inside just for a minute, then headed out to his car with the unwrapped plate in hand. I followed him to a street corner store in South Central, and I knew I was in trouble. There was heavy foot traffic. Dozens of people coming in and out every five minutes, half of them carrying sacks. I got out and went up to the front door. Everyone stared at me like I was Sitting Bull in war paint. Not effective undercover work, so I went back to my car and studied the situation from there.

  “I kept watching the streets for a jazzed up midnight blue Mercedes SL 500. Saw a good share of Mercedes, but not that one. These guys are smart, or they’re lucky. It was half an hour when Mr. Thomas comes back out of the store. He’s carrying a sack. So do I follow him or stay put? He might have the license in his sack and be heading to where these guys hang out. I followed him. We go a few miles, and it’s obvious he’s headed back home. By the time I turn around and get back to the store, any one of a hundred black males could have made the pick up, or they could have done it while I watched. Who knows? Our perps could have sent their mother or their girlfriend. Short of holding everyone at gunpoint and checking their bags as they left the store, there’s nothing I could do. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay, Ray,” Ollie said. “At least we’ve gotten as far as a store in South Central. There’s a good chance their hood is nearby, so it’s still a help.”

  “This is definitely Hoover turf,” Ray said. “It’s just that it’s one gigantic territory. I’ll keep cruising and looking for the Mercedes and do some digging. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Hey Ray?” Clarence said, throat clutching a bit. “I want to thank you for going down there for me. It means a lot. Just don’t go risking your life, okay?”