by Shawn Inmon
“Mr. Post!” Tricia Tanner again. “Mr. Post, do you have any comment on the evidence that Pastor Krupman paid Steven McLeod for sex?”
“I don’t have anything to add at this time. If you want to know more, you’ll have to ask Mr. Krupman.”
Mr. Krupman was unavailable. His phone was turned off and his Land Rover was humming along I-5, south of Centralia. Were Tricia Tanner able to reach him and ask, “Where are you going?” his honest answer would have been “I don’t have a clue.” He was simply driving. Away.
He had left the early winter sunshine behind in King County. When a sprinkling of raindrops dotted his windshield, Dan turned on the Rover’s intermittent wipers and listened to NewsRadio 710 KIRO. The story of the megachurch pastor who paid to have gay sex was in heavy rotation, but he managed to tune that out. It wasn’t until the third time the story repeated that he heard the newscaster say, “And now, the latest development is that Mrs. Krupman filed for divorce, citing irreconcilable differences.”
Guess maybe I should turn my cell phone on. Rosalind might want to call me a heathen bastard one more time. Oh, and to mention that she filed for divorce.
He took the second Longview exit, turned left and rolled into a gas station, and turned his phone on. An icon showed that he had one hundred and sixty-seven missed calls and forty-eight messages.
“Nope,” he said quietly, and dropped the phone back into the passenger seat. The gas gauge said he had three-quarters of a tank, but Dan decided to top off. He hopped out, slid his Mastercard into the pump, inserted the nozzle and waited.
After fifteen seconds, the pump readout said SEE CASHIER.
“What the hell?” He slipped the card back into his wallet and inserted his American Express. Fifteen seconds later, the same message appeared. A bad feeling started in his lower abdomen. By the time he reached the double doors of the AM/PM, the feeling had reached his throat. There was a line waiting for the cashier—a mom with two small children pulling on her, a young girl looking at her cell phone, two guys holding half-racks of Coors, and an old man, leaning against a cane and smiling patiently at no one in particular.
Daniel threw back his head in frustration, then spotted the ATM next to the chip display.
At least I can get some cash.
He got out of line, slid his debit card into the ATM, punched in his PIN, then asked for $500. Another pause, while the machine connected to a database somewhere. Insufficient Funds. Would you like to check your balance?
The feeling of dread overbore him as he reached out and selected, “Yes.” The ATM spit out a receipt reflecting a total balance of $103.
There was over fifty thousand dollars in that account yesterday. Son of a bitch!
He took a deep breath, asked for $100. The owner of this terminal will charge the account $2.50 for this transaction. Do you wish to continue? He punched “Yes” once again and five crisp twenty-dollar bills shuffled out into the tray. He turned and bumped into a man dressed in overalls and a beat-up John Deere hat. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t know I was holding things up.”
“It’s all right,” the man said. “I’ve been there a few times myself.”
Daniel nodded. He thinks I'm dead broke. I want out of here. He hurried back to the safety of his Land Rover.
Shit. Maybe I am I dead broke. He picked up his phone, called Rosalind.
She answered immediately. “Yes?”
“Ros, it’s me.”
“I know who it is.”
“Oh. You’ve never answered the phone like that before…” he trailed off. She did not offer an explanation. “Ros, where did all our money go?”
“What do you mean?”
“Our checking account. There was more than fifty thousand dollars in there yesterday. Now, there’s $103.00.”
“Yes. I was just going to leave a hundred, but William told me that it might cost you a few dollars to access the money, so he recommended I leave $103.00 instead."
“William? Who is William?”
“William Appleton. From the club. You’ve met him. Remember, he got divorced last year? He’s been helping me with quite a few things the past few days.”
The stew of swirling emotions inside threatened to boil over, but Daniel closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Okay. Fine. I get it. Look, Ros, I know we’re in a bad spot here, but there’s no need to be spiteful and just try to hurt each other.”
Daniel heard icy laughter through the crackling phone line. “I’ll let you know when we’re even on that score, then we can start a new round.”
“You can’t just take all our money, Rosalind.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But for now I have, and that’s good enough for me. I reported all your credit cards as stolen, except for the Visa. I wasn’t on that account. I assume that’s the one you used when you were–” a long pause—“doing whatever it is you were doing with him. You can use that one for anything you need.”
The line went dead.
Daniel leaned his head forward on the steering wheel. After sitting motionless for five minutes, he heard a horn honk behind him. There were now cars at most of the pumps. He looked in his rear view mirror and saw the driver behind him with both hands extended. Are you gonna move, or what?
He moved. He got on the freeway and drove south, hitting Portland late enough in the evening to miss the worst of the I-5 snarl. By 9:30 it was pitch black, and the sprinkles had turned to what Pacific Northwesterners called rain: cold, spitting splatters against the windshield. His gas tank warning light came on, and he peered ahead for the next exit. His headlights illuminated a green sign that read, “Middle Falls, all services, one mile.” A mile ahead, as advertised, he saw the glow of an Arco station.
He pulled to the pump, tossed all his credit cards onto the floor except his Visa, which only had a limit of $3000. Rosalind had been right. It was the card he'd used when he was out with Steve. Or whoever. At first he began to open his car door, then remembered how things were done in Oregon. Daniel handed the Visa to the gas station attendant and asked that he fill the Land Rover up with Regular.
There had been a lot of whoevers over the years. A miracle that this whole house of cards hadn’t come tumbling down years before. Hanging out with druggies and prostitutes, hoping to never get caught. Or maybe hoping to get caught, because holding this whole secret got to be so damn tiring. That’s one thing, at least. It’s not hanging over my head any more.
It fell on my head.
As the attendant filled the tank, Daniel tried to remember what the balance was on the Visa. A thousand? Fifteen hundred? Maybe it just doesn’t matter.
The man at the adjoining pump exited his car and walked to the squeegee station. Dan rolled down his window and asked, “Hey, buddy, is there really a waterfall here, or is that just the name of the town?”
The man stopped. He was in middle age, but looked to be in good shape. His track suit read Middle Falls High Track Team. “Yeah, of course, it’s about two miles from here," he said. "Turn left out of the gas station, then go until you see a Wendy’s. Turn right there, and you can’t miss the falls. Not gonna see much this time of night, though.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“No worries. I’d like to say it’s worth staying in town for the night to see in the morning, but I hate to lie to a perfect stranger.”
Lie to a perfect stranger. Shit. That’s exactly what I’ve been doing my whole life, isn’t it?
Daniel waved thanks, rolled up the window, waited for the attendant to complete the transaction, and followed the directions. Less than five minutes later, he saw the sign for the falls. He parked in a small gravel area and got out, ignoring the wind and rain. He crossed a small concrete span, then heard water rushing off to his right. The track-suited guy had been right. With no illumination, he couldn’t see much of anything.
He retrieved his iPhone from his pocket, looked through it for the flashlight app, and turned it on. The pitiful light illumina
ted the rain drops in front of him, but showed little else. He could hear the sound of water smashing onto rocks, though.
He fell to his knees on the rough concrete, oblivious to the rain.
“Lord, I have failed you in every way possible. I am lost. I am ready to give up. Please let me hear Your Voice.” Daniel hung his head and listened. He heard the water thunder, and the sound of an approaching car.
He made a decision.
He took off his wedding ring and placed it on a small pile of his belongings—his phone, his wallet, the keys to the Rover.
Daniel got off his knees and bent over the railing, looking into the abyss below.
Two Years Later
Rev sat up in his cot and looked around. He was a thin man, even gaunt, with a shaven head and prominent cheekbones. Early morning sunlight lit the cots around him. He pulled back the thick wool blanket and put his feet on the cold floor, wiggling his toes against the worn wood. Mark Twain famously said that the coldest winter he’d ever spent was a summer in San Francisco, and Rev had found that to be the case. The Mission on Abrejo, which sat in the deep shade of taller buildings, was chilly every morning, year round.
Rev had slept in the clothes he would wear that day, one of only two sets he owned. Both were worn, patched, and comfortable. He stepped into his slippers and moved between the cots, pausing and checking on each occupant. At the front, a mother slept with a small blonde girl. The blanket had slipped off the girl, so he pulled it up to her chin, remembering to place the pink patchwork doll against her chest first. The girl mumbled, but did not awaken.
“Morning, Rev. Want some coffee?” This was Jimmy, a stringy-haired young man with a nervous tic in his left eye. He was the only regular up and about before the man he called Rev, mostly because Jimmy almost never slept.
“God's nectar. Thanks for starting it.” Rev moved deftly between the cots to a small alcove at the back of the room. An old coffee pot percolated there, and he poured some into a small Styrofoam cup. He took a small sip of the bitter brew and smiled.
God is Good. Life is good.
Author’s Note for Fallen
I’m sure I’m not the only person who thinks about the human interaction that goes on behind the scenes of breaking news stories. When I see a story such as “Megachurch pastor admits wrongdoing,” my mind immediately goes to: what is he thinking right now? How is his wife really reacting. Will this ultimately be a good thing for him, or will it send him further down?
I watched a documentary recently that showed some of the answers to those questions, but for me, it didn’t go far enough. I wanted to know if he ultimately found redemption. So, to satisfy that itch for myself, I created Pastor Dan, who had to go through his own personal hell before he found his redemption.
Old Man
Summer, 1989
The room was stuffy in the heat of summer. Sun shone around the blinds of the otherwise darkened bedroom. Wherever a beam cut through the darkness, motes of dust floated lazily, seeming to defy gravity in the still air. A man sat hunched over a still form on the bed. An observer could have justifiably drawn the conclusion that both were statues and not the flesh and blood they really were.
The woman in the bed pulled a sudden, sharp breath into her lungs and opened her eyes in surprise. When she had fallen asleep, she had believed she was saying her last good-bye. Now, here she was again. The old man’s eyes were alive and intent, though the rest of him was still. He leaned forward and touched her cheek. Her skin was cool and paper thin. He had been praying beside her all day, but he wasn’t sure if he was praying for her to live or finally let go.
Her eyes crinkled as she smiled at him one last time. Fifty years earlier, she had flashed her smile across the room at a Grange dance. In that one moment, she had captured him. That happy day, they had never considered this day and the inevitable bookend to that first smile.
“You know where I want to be, don’t you honey?” she asked.
He nodded. “In the shade of the elms.”
She used the last of her strength to reach her hand out and lay it on his. She closed her eyes for the last time. As she drifted away, she heard him say “I’ll never leave you. I’ll will wait right here until I can be with you again.”
Summer, 2014
Dust boiled up from the wheels of the Land Rover as it sped along the last half mile of the dirt road that led to the entrance of Riffe River Ranch. Brady Danks drove with one hand draped casually over the steering wheel and the other fiddling with the radio. No matter what he did, he picked up only static. The air conditioner was turned to high, but still barely kept the heat of the day at bay.
His headlights lit an arched sign that spanned the road and told him he had arrived at the ranch, his latest acquisition. Unlike most of his investments, this one wasn’t for profit, but was more an investment in his sanity. 500 acres of solitude and luxury. He slowed and turned into the large circular driveway.
He had bought the place sight unseen, basing his decision on a 32 page brochure his business manager had sent him. He had assured him that it was a steal, and that he could get his money back plus a profit if he didn’t like it. His first impression of the place was that he had, indeed, gotten a good deal. The main house soared high above everything around it. It was impressive even to Brady, a difficult man to impress. Eight thousand square feet, with 6 bedrooms and 7 bathrooms.
That was a little ironic, since he couldn’t think of five other people in the world that he would want to stay under his roof. Still, he liked the immensity of the place.
It had once been a working cattle ranch, but that had gone away in the 80’s. Like so many others, Riffe River Ranch had gone bankrupt and was sold at auction. The man who had bought it at that auction had been the owner of a 24 hour cable news network. The first thing he did after the hammer fell was tear down the original farm house. In its place, he built this tribute to excess.
The sun had slipped behind the horizon. Brady squinted at the house. There were lights on, casting a contrary light into the gathering darkness.
That’s odd. Why the hell would there be lights on in a vacant house?
He walked up the wide, curving sidewalk to the front door and tried the knob, but it was locked, as it should be. He reached in his jacket pocket and fished out the oversized brass key. It slid home and turned the tumblers with a satisfying clunk. The door swung silently open.
“Hello?” Brady realized his voice sounded tinny. Almost a little scared.
“Hello?” he said again, dropping his voice down to his lower register. That’s better, he thought, as though an intruder would flee at the sound of a more-masculine voice.
There was no reply.
Brady walked into the immense great room off the foyer. The previous owners had left all their furniture as part of the terms of the sale, and there were leather couches and chairs arranged around the room, facing a large river rock fireplace and the windows that looked out on the mountains off to the east.
A soft voice behind Brady said, “Hello?”
Brady jumped, but was able to mostly catch an embarrassing squeak before it left his mouth.
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Danks, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Brady turned to see an old man standing in the foyer. He was small, lean and slightly bent. His face was deeply lined and looked to be made of the same leather as the gloves he had tucked into his belt. He wasn’t tall by any means – maybe 5’5”, even in the cowboy boots he was wearing. He looked as though anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary had been stripped away from him and discarded long ago.
He stood in stark contrast to Brady Danks, who was tall, genteel and at least a few big meals on the wrong side of well-fed.
Trying to recover his balance, and remembering he was standing in his own house, Brady said “And you are...?”
“I’m Roberts, Bob Roberts.”
“You caught me off-guard, Mr. Roberts. I wasn’t expecting anyone here. Can I ask w
hat you’re doing in my house?”
“I live here. Well, not in the house itself, of course, but out in the barn. I’ve always lived here. I expect I’ll die here, eventually. Didn’t Mrs. Condry up at the real estate office tell you?”
“No, she definitely did not. If she had, you wouldn’t still be here. I’m a private man, Mr. Roberts. I paid a lot of money to buy this property to guarantee my privacy. It’s not that I’m not sympathetic to you. I feel for you, but unless you can show me a lease or other agreement that allows you to be here legally, you are going to have to leave immediately.”
Brady knew this wasn’t good news for the old man, but his steady blue eyes never wavered.
“No, I’ve never had a lease, or a contract. Never needed one. But you see, Mr. Danks, I don’t cost you anything. I don’t need much, and what I do need, I buy with my guv’mnt check. I’ve always worked and earned my keep. I chop wood for the fireplace and do a little handyman work to keep things going. If you wanted to have animals, I’d be glad to take care of them for you too…”
“That really won’t be necessary. I have zero interest in having animals, and I have the same amount of interest in having a tenant living in the barn. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist that you leave. You can stay tonight in the barn, but I want you to be gone first thing in the morning. Do you have a way to get somewhere?”
“Yes sir. I’ve got my old pick up and she’ll get me anywhere I want to go. I’ve just never wanted to go anywhere other than here.” The old man’s shoulders slumped a little as he absorbed this defeat. He was not the kind of man to go on about what had already been decided, so he nodded, and silently let himself out of the house.
Brady moved to the window and watched the old man as he walked slowly to the barn that sat on the edge of the meadow ringed by a stand of elm trees.
