“Maybe you could skip the part about telling them what to believe,” his father said, buttering his toast. “Maybe you could just say a few words from your heart.”
“I can’t preach,” Jack said for the last time, and a door in his heart swung shut. “I don’t think I’ll ever preach again.”
“Gonna make it hard to get that big church back if you never preach again,” his father said mildly. He picked up his spoon, stopped midway to the jar of grape jelly, pointed it at him. “Think about it.”
“I never stop,” Jack said. “Thinking. About any of it.”
His father nodded. “It’s the curse of the Chisholms. What should we have done? Why didn’t we do better?”
“I got that from you,” Jack said, and he realized his voice held ten years of stored-up accusations.
If he was offended, his father didn’t show it; he didn’t even look up from spreading his jelly. “And where do you suppose I got it from?” he asked.
Jack sat there, awareness dawning. Now he remembered those marathon Thanksgiving prayers, the admonitions in the shop to do things precisely the right way, the denunciations for even the slightest deviation from the accepted way of being.
“Grampa Joe,” he said.
Tom nodded, raised his toast to his mouth, took a bite.
“And I expect he got it from his father, and he got it from his, and so on, and so on,” his father said between bites. “All the way back to Adam.”
“But when you came after me in Mexico,” Jack said. “And since. You didn’t make me feel ashamed. Haven’t.”
“I thought maybe,” Tom said carefully, “it was time we broke that pattern. Smashed it to bits, even.”
“But how did you—” Jack had wondered about the difference he’d perceived in his father since he came home, the loss of self-righteousness, the gain of what he could only call tenderness.
It was a more personal question than he had ever asked his father.
He couldn’t possibly ask it.
“You seem—different.”
His father took a sip of coffee, set the cup down. “I believe I am,” he said.
“Then what—”
“I found out I was going to die,” Tom said. He raised his hands, palms up. “Simple as that. It’s a fine motivator.”
Jack looked down at his Maxwell House. Was it small-town truth serum? He took a sip from his cup, climbed out on his own limb. “But surely you didn’t get that diagnosis and then just decide you were going to be different. Because you are different, Dad. I hardly recognize you.”
His father took another drink, and this time he set the cup down hard, sloshing coffee over the side.
He bit his lip, looked down at the mess he made. For a moment, Jack thought his father was going to cry.
“Let me—” Jack began, reaching for his cloth napkin and beginning to wipe up the spill.
“When I found out that I wasn’t going to live long,” his father said as he watched the damp section of the table dry, “I gave up pretending to be strong. I gave up trying to do what was right. For a while, I just gave up, period.” He looked up at Jack. “I couldn’t bear leaving so much undone. For a while, I climbed inside a bottle.” He anticipated Jack’s look of astonishment. “That’s right. Mary ran the store. I don’t know who fed me. Casseroles just showed up.”
“Dad, you—”
“I wasn’t afraid of dying. But I was terrified of dying without seeing you again. Without seeing Alison. Without making things right.” He looked down, ran his hand over the table. “Then one night I was drinking bourbon and watching Fox News and they were running the story about you. What you did. How the church threw you out.” He shook his head. “Mary thought you deserved everything you got, but something didn’t seem right to me. Angry as I might have been, I never stopped wishing things were different.” He shrugged. “So I called Father Frank. I told him I needed help.”
He laughed as he raised his cup. “And you can probably hear him now, can’t you? Sitting there, right there where you are now, both of us nursing our black coffees, my head pounding from a hangover. ‘The world thrives on bad news, Tom,’ he said to me. ‘It tells us to shape our lives around the bad news. We have to be converted from the bad news to the good news, from expecting nothing to expecting something. It’s time to expect something.’ He was talking about this bad news—yours, mine.”
Jack could hear Frank saying that. All of it. But one thing still puzzled him. “What is the good news in this, exactly?” he asked.
“My very question,” he said, pointing at Jack. “‘The good news,’ Frank told me, ‘is that you can help your son realize he is still loved after making a mistake. Because God knows, we all make mistakes.’ And he looked at me pointedly.”
“So—” Even though he was looking at his father, even though he was hearing his words, it still seemed unbelievable that a person could change so monumentally. “What, exactly? You got tired of your bad news?”
“I got tired of living it and spreading it. Because I finally realized that when we are down and on our last legs, only the good news can save us.”
“But what is the good news?” Jack asked again, a little more agitated this time.
“That depends on the person,” his father said.
Jack glared at him. “Dad, if you hold up your index finger and tell me that the secret of life is that ‘one thing’ from City Slickers, I will mess you up.”
His father snickered. “The good news,” he said, raising a calming hand, “is that you are sitting right here with me. That is plenty of miracle for now. Maybe more good news is on its way. And maybe the good news is deeper and more profound than just your sitting there. You and Frank can hash that out a lot better than I can.” He finished his coffee with a slurp, set it down a little more gently than before, sat back in his chair. “But this is plenty. I never thought I’d see you again.” And he spread his hands to indicate Jack sitting there in front of him.
Voilà.
Tom’s cell phone rang from the hallway, and his father shot out of his chair, out of the room. Jack would not have thought him capable of moving so quickly.
“Speaking,” he said. “You did? When?” He checked his watch. “I’ll get us tickets on the”—he was checking something—“1:25 from Austin. Gets in at 9:40.” Jack could hear him writing something down. “Yes. We will. We will. Thank you.”
Tom was quiet and then said again, in a wholly different tone of voice, “Thank you.”
Tom walked back into the kitchen, stood behind his chair. “Pack a bag,” he told Jack. “Pack warm.”
“Are we going to Boston?” Jack asked. He couldn’t believe it. Didn’t dare.
Tom nodded, smiled with sad eyes. “Tracy said that we could see Alison tomorrow.”
Jack sat blinking. “Really? Oh, that is a cruel joke, Dad—”
“Really,” Tom said.
“And Tracy? Can I talk to Tracy?”
“I’d imagine you’ll have to,” he said. “I’m already mostly packed. We’ll need to stop by the hardware store, though, put up a sign—”
“Let me run in and do it,” Jack said. “I left my coat and hat there.”
“Okay,” Tom said. He seemed lost in thought.
“Dad,” Jack said.
“Hmm? Oh. I was just thinking. I’ve never seen Alison in the flesh. Only on television.”
“What?”
“I thought I told you I used to watch your show,” Tom said. “Watched it after church.”
“I thought you didn’t like my sermons,” Jack said.
“I didn’t watch it for your sermons.”
“Well,” Jack said. “Tomorrow’s New Year’s Day. We’re going to Boston, and we’re going to see my family. That’s got to be a good sign.”
“Jack—”
“I was an English major, Dad,” he said. “I know a potent symbol when I see one.”
“I just don’t want you to put the cart before the h
orse. You and Tracy will have a lot to talk about.”
“But we finally get to talk!” Jack said. “I’ve been trying to talk to her since—”
“I just don’t want you to put the cart before the horse,” his dad repeated.
“Okay, Dad,” Jack said. “Fine. Whatever. The horse is in front of the cart.” He got up and hurtled into the hallway, swiped up the store and truck keys from the side table. “I’ll be right back.”
He hoped it would be sunny when they met. It would be cold, sure. It was January in Boston. But she had always loved the outdoors. Maybe he and Alison and Tracy could go to a park. Maybe they could have dinner together afterward. He knew of a place where you picked out the food you wanted cooked, brought it up to the cooks, and they grilled it for you. Alison would love that.
She’d see. He was in such a good space. He knew what he wanted. Everything was going to be better. She couldn’t help but respond to that, right?
Three blocks toward town was the Taylor house. It was an old, monumental three-story with turrets—maybe the nicest house in town. James wasn’t just the mayor; he owned the bank, after all, like his father had owned the bank, and his father before him.
As Jack drove past, he saw a teenage boy out front throwing a football into a net. He must have been out there a while now—the grass around the net was littered with footballs.
The boy took a five-step drop, squared up his hips and shoulders, and threw hard into the net.
Jack stopped and rolled down the passenger window. “Nice toss,” he called.
“Thanks,” the boy called back without looking at him. He picked up another ball from the green plastic bin in front of him, dropped back five steps, threw strong into the net.
Jack started to roll up the window. Then he paused for a moment and called out, “You know, you’re squaring up your shoulders and hips really well. But you’re throwing a little heavy off the front foot. You look like Tim Tebow. Not in the good way.”
The boy had another ball in his hands, looked down as if he were going to throw again, then looked at the truck for the first time.
“Tim Tebow won the Heisman,” he called back.
Then he took up the ball again, prepared to drop back.
“When you start to throw,” Jack shouted, and the boy froze, “you want eighty percent of your weight on the back leg. Twenty percent on the front leg. And you transition to the reverse. Right now, you’re throwing with eighty percent on the front leg. It throws off your balance. Believe me, I know.”
The boy had dropped back, but this time, he didn’t throw the ball. He lowered it to his waist, walked across the yard, stood ten feet from the truck.
“You’re Jack Chisholm,” he said.
“I am,” he said. “And you must be Cameron. QB 1, your dad tells me. Congratulations.”
“You took Mayfield to State,” Cameron said.
“Me, your dad, a whole lot of folks did.”
Cameron looked over at the house, turned back to the truck, and shook his head. “Man, my dad. He can’t stand you. If he sees us talking, he would lose his mind.”
“Yeah.” Jack cleared his throat. “Maybe. Listen. Think about what I said. If you start off that back foot, you’ll have better balance, more distance, probably more accuracy.”
Cameron tossed the ball in the air, caught it, tossed it, caught it. I’m QB 1, his expression seemed to be saying. And who are you, exactly?
Fair enough. Jack made a move to shift into drive.
Jack saw a movement and heard a bang from the front porch as the screen door opened, closed. Oh God, Jack thought. Not good news no matter who it was.
It was Darla Taylor, once Darla Scroggins, once his Darla, a lifetime ago. She looked out at the street, strained for a moment to see who it was, then raised a hand in greeting.
She looked good. Beautiful, even. She was in jeans and a sweater that accentuated every curve. She didn’t look like a mother of three.
Mother of three. How was that even possible? They had broken up his senior year over—what? He couldn’t even remember now. They broke up before State, and Jack’s head was somewhere other than in the game in the first half. Finally, a hard hit from a player on the other team—and a good yelling from his coach—got him thinking not about what Darla was doing in the stands but what was happening on the field. By then, it was too late.
After the game, James took her on a date. Two weeks later they were an item. A year later they got married.
Jack still didn’t know how all of that had happened so fast, how she’d gone from loving him to loving his archenemy.
It was like Lois Lane had dropped Superman for Lex Luthor. Something was fundamentally wrong with it.
But it happened. And then they had kids. Three of them, one of whom stood here tossing a ball in the air.
The world goes round and round, Jack thought.
That could have been my wife.
This could have been my boy.
This was not helpful, not now, not ever, especially not when he was getting ready to try to win back his own wife and child.
Darla started down the front steps, and Jack found himself being infected with something that felt like panic.
“Gotta go,” he said, looking out at Cameron. “I hope Texas offers you something. God knows they need a QB.”
He nodded at them both and drove off in a rush.
He did wish the kid well. It was a huge responsibility to be QB 1 in Mayfield, Texas.
And he had nothing but sympathy for anyone who had to live with James Taylor.
At the store, he grabbed his coat from the rack. His maroon and white knit hat was in the pocket. He looked around the store for something distinctly Texas that he might take to Alison as a gift. He couldn’t find anything that didn’t look distinctly like it came from a hardware store. They’d grab something at the airport.
Someone knocked at the front door, and Jack realized that he hadn’t written up the sign yet. “We’re closed,” he called.
The knock came again. It was Kathy Branstetter.
“Hey,” he said, opening it a crack. “Sorry. We’re closed.”
“I saw you come in,” she said. “I wanted to tell you something. I think you’ll be pleased.”
“Well,” he said. “Okay. But I’m in kind of a hurry.”
She came in, looked at him as though they shared a secret.
“Yes?” he asked.
“The Post ran your picture this morning.” She looked at him, her lips wavering as though she wanted to smile but wasn’t sure she ought to yet.
“The Washington Post,” he said.
“That’s right,” she said.
“Ran a picture of me.”
“That’s right.”
“How’d they get a picture of me?”
Again, her lips said smile, but her brain was reading the room. “I—well, I, umm, kind of sent it to them.”
He crossed his arms and frowned at her. “You what?”
“I sent them a picture of you on the roof yesterday,” she said. “They ran it today. Now they want me to do a full-blown story on you. A piece on the return of the people’s pastor.”
He felt his stomach turn over. “You sent the Washington Post a picture of me fixing Mrs. Calhoun’s roof?”
She nodded.
“Why would you do that?”
“Well,” she shrugged. “It’s a good picture, for one thing. For another—”
“And they know I’m here?” He was shaking his maroon and white cap at her.
“Everybody knows you’re here,” she said, stepping back. “I ran into three print reporters and two cable news people just now at the gas station asking for directions to Mrs. Calhoun’s.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, kicking at the floor. He really wanted to be kicking her, but that was neither kind nor chivalrous. “See, Kathy, that’s not right. I didn’t go up there so people could take pictures of me. So reporters would come to town and bother Nor
a Calhoun.”
“Really?” she said. “All those pictures and tweets and YouTube videos you used to release, and the books you wrote where you went on and on about doing good in the world—”
“That’s not me,” he said. “I mean it was. But that was for show.” He stopped worrying his hat and stuffed it in his pocket. “I climbed on that roof yesterday to help my friend. That’s it. You shouldn’t have been taking my picture. And you certainly shouldn’t have sent it off to the national news.”
“You are national news,” she said defensively, her hands on her hips. “You know that full well—”
“I was news,” he said. “Now I just want to be left alone.”
She snorted. “Sure. Left alone. Listen, Jack, I can help you manage—”
“You’re not hearing me,” he said.
“I can help—”
“I think you’ve done enough,” Jack said.
“If we could just talk—” She started to open her pad.
“I’m on my way out of town.”
“You’re leaving?” She blinked at him rapidly.
“I’ll be sure to issue a press release when I return,” he said. “You can hang out and play reporter with your friends until I get back. Be sure and give them some pictures. I think my right profile is stronger.”
“You’re mad. Why would you be mad?” She turned her head slightly to one side, looked at him as though she were seeking a new angle. “This isn’t about a reboot?”
“A what?” He shook his head. “What are you even talking about?”
“Jack,” she said. “I told you. I followed you. Was there ever a time in the last ten years when you did a good deed without a camera rolling? Ever?”
It was as though a chasm had yawned open in his chest and he was toppling into it.
She was right.
She was absolutely, 100 percent right.
“That’s not me,” he said again, quietly, hoping it was true.
“Jack, if I can just file a story—”
He looked pointedly at her. “We’re closed,” he said. “And I’m not in Mayfield for a reboot, or whatever it was you said. I’m here trying to get my act together, figure some things out, and I do not want to be bothered while I try and do that.”
The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story Page 12
