Mack wants to say, “I’m not so sure about that,” but knows that tonight mercy is called for. He promises to come during his lunch hour tomorrow.
At the corner of Main and Walnut, he turns north. Three blocks later, he pulls into the drive of a small house near the school. He sits there, with the engine rumbling, and sees the curtains at one of the front windows part. Terry Jenkins looks out at him. Mack can’t tell if Jenkins recognizes him or not.
He doesn’t know what he planned to do, coming here. He promised Jodie that he’d let her handle it. But of course that’s not enough. The man in the window has wronged the man in the car. Eventually they must face each other and settle something.
Eventually. Not this evening. There is too much pain welling up in the house where Mack lives. Anything he starts here with Jenkins will not end easily. Mack has never been a violent man, but he fears that violence waits low inside him for the few times in life when it’s truly needed. He imagines hurting Jenkins, actually harming him physically. Jodie’s sobs in the church have released a new level of anger in him. He wants someone to pay for all that’s gone wrong. Even though Jenkins is a little part of it, it would be easy to kick the life out of him tonight.
He pulls out of the driveway and goes home. It’s either a cowardly decision or a very wise one. All he knows for sure is that he needs to be home, not in jail, or not trailing in later with bloody knuckles.
He sees Kenzie at the kitchen sink when he pulls up. But by the time he walks in the door her feet are disappearing at the top of the stairs. Young Taylor sits in front of some demonic-looking video, a skinny, death-white kid rising from the ground, his teeth black. Young Taylor munches a sandwich. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey.”
“How’s Grandma?”
“Tired, but okay I think.”
“Cool.” There is the same emaciated kid, dressed in robes, chanting “disposable teens” over and over.
“You consider that entertainment?”
“Yes.”
Mack goes upstairs and knocks on Kenzie’s door. In a small voice she grants him entrance. She is on the bed.
“Is Mom still in the bedroom?” he asks.
Kenzie nods. “She wants to sleep.”
“That’s probably what she needs.” He sits near her on the bed. “I know the service upset her, but I think it was good that she went. I’m glad you were there too. That meant a lot to Mom.”
“She’ll worry about me now, won’t she?”
He looks at his daughter, seeing again the agony that glowed out of her the other night, after they had waited and waited for that son of a bitch Jaylee to show up in the woods. She was so sure he would come, and then so inconsolable as Mack walked her back up to the house. She wouldn’t look at him, but the yard light had shone in her eyes, and he was sure he’d never seen so much pain in one person.
That night Kenzie’s face had brought another terrible memory out of storage. Back when they decided to sell the farm, Mack had arranged for Buddy Humbolt, the auctioneer, to come out and work on the list of goods to be sold. The evening before Buddy came, Mack saw Kenzie carrying something down toward the creek, right at dusk. He waited until she was back at the house before going to investigate. At about ten-thirty, with flashlight in hand, he found the stash at the base of the old cottonwood. Her bicycle, covered up with grass and branches. A box filled with other treasures—some of her favorite books, the doll Rita had made her when she was five, a photo album. Kenzie was ten then and didn’t understand that her most personal belongings would not be sold along with the machinery and acreage. Mack returned to the house, choking back tears, and did his best to explain.
No. He didn’t do that. He told Jodie, and she had the conversation with Kenzie. Just one more difficult job that got dumped into his wife’s lap.
Mack thinks of all this now as he tries to look into his daughter’s eyes, which stay focused away from him. “Mom and I both know you’re going to be all right. She’s worried about me mainly, but I’m doing a lot better now too.” He rubs Kenzie’s knee and smiles at her, willing her to look at him. She does, but with no return smile.
“I guess it was dumb to talk with Mitchell so much.”
“Your heart was in the right place. We don’t think you’re dumb.”
“I just really thought he wanted to know Jesus.” A little tear has entered her voice.
“Maybe he does, but he’ll be better off learning about Jesus from someone else. Maybe you and Pastor Williamson can pray for him to find the right person to help him.”
“Like that does any good.” Her voice is lifeless.
“You don’t think it does?”
“Hasn’t done this family any good.” He sees darkness shift over her countenance and feels a strange relief. Better to get mad at God early and get it over with.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he says. “We can’t always see how things are working.”
“You think things are working?” Her eyes accuse him.
“Here and there, yeah. I’m not giving up.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I won’t give up, I promise.” He grasps her hand, and after a second or two, she squeezes back, feebly.
“Do you think you can sleep too?” He wants to cuddle her the way he did when she was little, but such expressions have to be rationed out now, in her almost-grown life.
“Sure.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.” He leans over and kisses her forehead, stroking her cheek lightly with his hand. She turns her head to return the kiss but otherwise remains still, as if her thoughts and emotions have had a paralyzing effect.
He goes downstairs to say good-night to Young Taylor, who has turned down the TV and is reading a magazine, rolling an empty pop can under his bare foot.
Their bedroom is quiet and pitch black. Jodie hasn’t left a light on, as she used to do when she was first in bed. He can hear her sleep-breathing clear across the room. He undresses, down to his underwear and T-shirt, and crawls in beside her. She budges slightly, from habit, to make room for him.
“Mmm,” she says in her sleep.
“It’s just me. Kenzie’s in bed, and Young Taylor’s reading. Mom’s okay, just tired.”
Her breathing changes. She is awake, barely.
He props himself on one side, facing her back, and leans over to kiss her cheek. “Is it all right for me to do that, sweet?”
He feels her head nod against the pillow. “Yes,” she whispers, hoarse from crying.
He nestles as close as he can, spooning his shape against hers, her fine hair in his face. He strokes it once or twice, then lays his arm over her side. After a moment, her breathing grows deep again.
Kenzie
Dear Jesus,
It feels strange to even write in this journal now. It’s not private anymore—who knows how many people have read it? Maybe I should burn it—but I need to think about that before I really do it.
Who are you anyway, if you’re not the person I’ve been talking to? I don’t know what to believe. Were you with Mitchell and me, or not? Did you hear all our prayers? And those miracles that have happened in Reverend Francis’s ministry—where did they come from? Mom says that he’s probably not a bad guy, just misled. If you let people be misled, what else will you let happen?
Pastor Mike says that he understands why I would feel like the Tribulation is already here. But he thinks you’re more patient than that—that you want to give all of us plenty of time to find grace. He says that the Book of Revelation is true but it’s hard to say how it will work itself out. That you want us to concern ourselves with living in faith today instead of worrying about tomorrow and the End Times.
Well, I’m sure this is the End Times. But I won’t argue with Pastor Mike about it.
Mom says she understands about falling in love, even if it’s with the wrong person. She says that Mitchell left me behind because I’m not old enough, no matter what he says. She says
he would have been arrested if he’d taken me to Kansas.
But I know that Mitchell’s not afraid of the government or getting arrested. I still think I’ll see him again, but I don’t know if I’ll go with him, even if he asks. I feel like the time isn’t right, that’s all. Mom says that she and Dad need me here, that just having me at home makes life happier. Even Young Taylor said it would be a waste for me to hook up with some guy right away—he says I have too much talent to not go to college and do a lot of interesting things first. He’s never complimented me like that before. And he doesn’t talk to anybody unless he really means it.
Bekka has been really sweet to me. At school she cornered me so I had to talk to her, and I said, “I don’t want to talk—this is all so embarrassing,” and she said I shouldn’t be embarrassed because falling in love is so out of everybody’s control, and she has this theory that we have to fall in love with several people before we can tell we’ve found the right one. She thinks that I might fall in love more than some people just because I have so much love in my heart. Then she told me about some really dumb stuff she did to impress this college student who worked for her dad two summers ago. So we laughed about acting stupid around guys, and I feel okay with Bekka now.
Dad tries to hang around and talk with me more. He says he gets tongue-tied because I’m growing up so fast and he feels like he doesn’t know what to say that I’d be interested in. He says that he’s glad I remember to pray for all of us, because sometimes he gets busy and forgets.
So, I don’t know where you are now, Jesus. I don’t know what to say or if you’re really listening or if you’ll ever touch my life again, or even if you ever did. I guess I’ll keep writing prayers to you anyway, just in case.
But it feels really lonely, not praying in the same way as before, not having the faith I used to have.
If you’re there, please help me sometimes. And maybe let me know, if you’re close by, that it’s really you.
Mackenzie Barnes
Jodie
She has been a weepy mess for three days. The whole church service thing unhinged her completely, and as she walks through each task of her day, her limbs feel so loose and unmanageable, her mind so unsteady, that she is glad Mack is still here. Part of her had hoped that, after she confessed her unfaithfulness, he would leave and that part of life would be finished and she and the kids could get on with the business of refashioning home together.
But he is still here. He lies down beside her at night, quiet and unmoving. He has ventured a couple of times to kiss her cheek or rub her back, but he doesn’t try to talk or do anything. If she looks into his eyes, the grief inside them lays her low, so she doesn’t look. Maybe anger would be easier to deal with. At this point in her life, forgiveness is simply confounding. She can’t make sense of Mack, certainly not of the kids. In a jolt of mild horror, she realizes that the person she relates to best right now is Rita. She stands at the kitchen sink, which seems to be the still center of her whole life, and scours the cooked-on grease of the skillet, trying to rub away this new thought. She hears Mack walk in from the dining room, and she turns to face him. There is a bigger matter they must deal with this evening.
“You need to go get Young Taylor,” she says.
Mack stiffens. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing, yet. But you’ll never guess where I just found him.”
He waits. She reaches for the dish towel and dries her hands.
“I was coming back from town, and I glanced toward the cemetery, and there he was.” She makes a helpless motion with her hand.
“At the cemetery?”
“Yes! On a lawn chair right at the graves. It was so ridiculous I had to pull over and look. He’s at your dad’s grave, lounging like he’s at the beach or something. It’s hardly twenty degrees today.”
“He’s wearing a coat, isn’t he?”
“Of course—jeez!” The calm on Mack’s face makes her want to slap him. “But that’s not the point. He’s out there sitting in the cemetery.”
“Maybe he’s just visiting.”
“He’s never gone visiting before. You don’t think this is something to be concerned about?” She turns back to the sink and plunges her hands into the water, too mad to keep looking at her husband. Here they’ve had one child about to run off to some cult, and now the other is grave-sitting for no apparent reason. She spouts out words while fishing silverware from the bottom of the murky sink. “I’d just like for one person in this family to be okay.”
“Why’s that, Jo?”
She turns toward him again, the dishrag dripping onto the floor.
Mack has moved closer, and he talks quietly. “Why should we be okay? Our situation isn’t okay. It hasn’t been for a long time.”
She is without an answer. She tries to process what he’s just said.
He leans back against the cabinet, folding his arms in front of him. “I’m not so sure it’s right to expect everybody to be okay. I’m just happy that we’re trying to cope.”
“Well, the coping in this family hasn’t been too constructive.”
“No, it hasn’t. But we’re still here, aren’t we?” She can feel his eyes studying her. “You know, I don’t wake up anymore and ask myself, ‘Do I feel happy today?’ A lot of days, that’s still too much to ask.”
“So what do you ask yourself?” She has turned back to the sink and is looking out the window.
“Well, it depends. If I get up feeling really rotten, I ask, ‘What’s the main thing I need to do in the next hour?’ And I don’t take it any further. If it’s a better day…”
She’s looking at him now. She wants to read his face and know that what she’s hearing is not just a lot of bull.
“…if I’m not feeling so rotten, then I ask, ‘What’s one thing I want today that’s possible?’” He meets her look, and she sees nothing false in him.
“I still want you to go find out what our son is doing in the cemetery.”
“That I can do.” He puts on his jacket but turns to her before walking out the door. “Come out there yourself in, say, twenty minutes.”
She can’t think of a reason to refuse. “Okay.”
She watches the back of him as he walks out to the truck. It is the most familiar sight in the world, and she wonders if it is so familiar that she’s tired of it and wants it out of her life. She has him memorized whether or not she wants to remember every detail of his face, every small habit and posture. Maybe the only place left to go is further in, past the stuff she knows. Lately he says things that seem to point to some place deeper, a spot with which she’s not so well acquainted. She wonders if it’s possible for there to be parts of Mack she doesn’t know at all.
At the other end of her situation is Terry, to whom she has not spoken for nearly a week. She has picked up the phone several times and put it down again—yet another indication that her personal drama is on a par with bad moviemaking. She and Terry haven’t seen each other since the day in the motel parking lot. The grief over this seems out of proportion to the situation itself. She no longer has sex once or twice a week with this man she found so attractive and exciting. She tries to think about it in merely those terms: the sex has stopped. That is not all, though—she has lost as well the smiles and looks in code when they happened upon each other at the school. Because she is no longer with him, he looks better than ever; she wonders if she really did rush her decision to break things off. She and Mack are existing together, but she can’t imagine that there will ever be the excitement between them that she has rediscovered in another bed.
The fact is, though, that Terry let go easily once she told him they had to stop, and if her thoughts linger upon him, she fills up with anger and hurt. She had hoped he would fight for her a little bit. Maybe she was merely sex to him. Was he more than that to her? Of course—the attention, the laughing together, the amazing warmth they generated. That went beyond sex, had to. Whatever was there, Terry is not fightin
g for it. He avoids her. She imagines that he flirts with the second-grade teacher, who is younger than him. Yes, it’s that easy for him. He has no attachments, no regrets. Even if it’s not that easy emotionally—and she does believe he’s hurt by her leaving—to move on is simply easy for him in a lot of other ways.
And she knows a deeper truth. It wasn’t that difficult to give her body to Terry, but she never gave him her heart. Not that she withheld it or saved it for Mack or anyone else. She’s misplaced her heart, or maybe she’s locked it away. Or maybe it is hiding on its own. Until it comes back, anything with Terry or Mack or any other man is doomed to fail.
She shakes her head as Mack puts a rusty lawn chair into the truck bed. As he leaves the driveway and heads toward town, her sadness follows him. They have lost so much, and both of them are old and tired. He expects for life to heal; she looks for a balm that she believes, more all the time, does not exist. She has to admire Mack’s willingness to keep going. In fact, he is turning out to be more of a fighter than she believed him to be. Not that long ago, he was willing to give up his life and all of them. Was ready to say good-bye and leave them with unanswerable grief. Jodie wonders now if what she has really resented was his weakness. In fact, she knows, deep down, that the only reason she told Mack about the affair was to see how he would respond, to find out how much she really mattered to him. Dear Jesus, what kind of a manipulative person has she become?
She can’t think more about any of this. She is learning how much she can think in a day, and it’s not much. So she does mindless work and thinks for a few moments, and then she stops herself and finds more mindless work. She has devised her own way of coping, after all.
In the back of her thoughts, an old hymn scratches up memories of things she used to build her life upon. She tries to replace these unbelievable words with her own, with something she is more likely to trust. No such words are forthcoming, and so she allows the hymn phrases to tumble around some more. For the first time, she notices that the chorus ends not in answer but in question.
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