by Ruth Reid
“Draw near to God, child,” Nathaniel whispered. “He’s equipped your heart to seek Him.” Nathaniel flapped his wings with force and sent a stiff zephyr into the dense clouds. The clouds vanished, exposing the splendid view of the Master’s creation.
The postcards he’d seen in the park’s visitor center didn’t capture the amazing, indescribable vivid richness of the blue river against the red canyon backdrop. “God, are you here?” What Jordan thought he said under his breath echoed. An unexpected shudder rippled along his spine.
“Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord and whose hope is the Lord.” A man with a baritone voice stepped forward.
Jordan’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t heard anyone walk up.
The older man smiled and lifted his eyes to look toward the canyon. “The opening through the arch is one of my favorites.”
“The Angels Window”—Jordan lifted a pamphlet—“according to the map.”
The man squatted on the sandy soil. “A grand view indeed.” He looked at Jordan. “Have you looked from here?”
Jordan began to move toward the hiking trail. “I should—”
The man’s eyes flickered. “Take a moment.”
Jordan crouched beside the man. The view looked the same to him. Then he blinked and his perspective changed. Detailed etchings in the basin became visible. He blinked again and the image was gone. A mirage. Jordan rubbed his eyes as he stood.
“Sometimes a different perspective opens your eyes to what’s been there all along,” the man said.
Jordan crinkled his brows. The man wasn’t making sense. He peered at the Angels Window, squinting to see if that would change his perspective.
“I don’t know what—” But the man was gone. Jordan combed his fingers through his hair, then hiked toward the trail.
“Seek God with your whole heart. For those who seek, find.” Nathaniel continued at Jordan’s side. “God is with you. Your spiritual eyes must be opened.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jordan looked from one side of the boulevard to the other. He’d never seen so many blinking lights and neon signs.
“This is the city that doesn’t sleep.” Clint cranked the wheel, turned onto a narrow delivery access road, and stopped at the guardhouse.
“Company name, log, and driver’s license,” the security officer said.
“C. E. Trucking.” Clint handed the man the delivery log and his license, which the security guard compared with something on his computer inside the booth. Clint glanced at Jordan. “The casinos have stiff security policies, but it shouldn’t take long.”
Jordan watched the man still verifying the information. “Where are we headed next?”
Clint stretched, letting out a pleased groan. “I usually take a few days to relax before picking up the next load.”
Jordan liked that idea. It would give him time to find a place to buy stamps and mail the postcards to Rachel.
The security officer returned Clint’s information. “Second dock on the left.” He pressed the electronic gate release and waved Clint forward.
Jordan took in the large concrete building. “This doesn’t look anything like the casinos we passed.”
“This is the central distribution center.” Clint made a wide turn. “Most trucks are unloaded here and the cargo is inspected. Later they issue the freight through vans from their distribution center.” He put the rig in reverse and checked the side mirrors as he backed the fifty-three-foot trailer up to the dock. “Next week my refrigerated trailer will be out of the shop and we’ll make nonstop live lobster runs out of Maine.”
“Live?”
“Yep. I certainly don’t understand it. I’ve taken frozen lobsters to the cruise ships, but out here, they want them live.” He shifted to park and cut the engine. “The pay’s better too.” Two employees greeted him as he climbed out of the cab.
Jordan stepped out to stretch his legs.
“This is my son, Jordan. He plans to start driving soon.” Clint smiled and pushed his shoulders back.
Jordan nodded his greeting because the noise from the forklifts prevented him from participating any further in their conversation.
An hour later, Clint exchanged paperwork with the foreman. He inspected the inside of his empty trailer before closing and latching the door. Inside the cab, he initialed, dated, and timed the log, setting it on the seat. “Ready for some fun?”
“Sure.” His stiff body would be grateful to do something other than sit in a cab.
Clint shifted into first gear and rolled away from the dock. “Once we check into the room, I’ll show you around the casino.” He waved to the guard at the gate as they passed through the checkpoint. “First we’ll drop the truck in temporary storage and take a cab to the casino. I’m sure you’ll like the comped room at Caesars Palace.”
Jordan was confused. “Comped?”
“The room’s free,” Clint explained.
“Because you deliver stuff?”
Clint laughed. “Because I have a fat paycheck to cash and they don’t want to lose me to another casino.” He eased into traffic. “I’ve been making these Vegas runs for years. When I first started, I picked up the next load and was out of town within a few hours. I learned that after several Maine-to-Vegas runs back-to-back, you need a few days to recoup. Besides, it was hard to pass up buffet and show vouchers. It wasn’t long before they gave me free rooms.”
Jordan didn’t fully grasp the trucking business, but he’d grown to appreciate anytime they could sleep in a bed versus the truck’s sleeper.
The “city that never sleeps” term made sense to Jordan. How could anyone sleep with the constant stimuli?
Clint pulled into the lot and veered toward the short-term parking section. Several trucks and a few RVs lined the area. He rapped on the door to the sleeper. “Throw some stuff into the duffel bags for us while I get the rig shut down and secured.”
Jordan climbed into the sleeping compartment. He hadn’t accumulated much clothing to pack. He did have the blue shirt Rachel made for him, but he hadn’t even tried it on. Jordan jammed it and a few T-shirts into the duffel bag. He found the other bag and loaded it with Clint’s clothes.
“There’s a shuttle to the casinos,” Clint said, leading the way to the station. “Sometimes I’ll take a cab when I don’t feel like waiting for the shuttle.” He pointed to a barber sign. “I think after I check the rig in, I’ll get a haircut. What about you?”
Jordan combed his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t had a haircut since Rachel hacked it. “I’ll wait in here.” He plopped onto a chair in front of a large-screen TV. Unlike the other truck stops, this room had slot machines lining the walls.
On the Weather Channel—standard viewing fare for the truck driver—the weatherman reported on the heat wave sweeping over most of the nation. Michigan would be one of the hottest areas. Jordan’s chest felt heavy. He rested his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands.
“You lose your run too?”
Jordan looked up as another trucker sat on the seat beside him.
“I’ve lost two Michigan runs now. They’ve had massive crop failures in this heat.”
The uneasy feeling in his chest grew. It was likely Micah’s late-planted crops would’ve failed too. “God will provide,” Micah had said.
Jordan pressed his palms together and stared at his hands. Then words to a God he’d been ignoring for a long time came through him in a pleading prayer. God, the Hartzlers need you. Please protect their crops and give them a fine harvest in spite of the drought.
Jordan had never seen such opulence. As he stepped inside Caesars Palace, it was as though he were stepping onto a street in Rome. A larger-than-life statue of Caesar sat in the midst of a fountain surrounded by other Roman figures. The floor resembled a cobblestone street, and a mural of the sky on the ceiling was so realistic, it seemed that instead of nighttime, they were enjoying a gorgeous afternoon under a blue
sky littered with clouds. He tried to keep his mouth closed, but he was sure it must be hanging open judging by Clint’s amused laughter as he watched him. “You gawk,” Clint said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Jordan felt like he couldn’t take it all in. Over at the casino, lights flashed and bells blared as loudly as in the city streets. It was overwhelming
“Come on, Jordan,” Clint said, coming up behind him. “We’re registered. Now it’s time to start the fun.”
Jordan followed Clint to the casino lounge and sat on the empty stool next to Clint’s at the bar.
“What will it be?” the bartender asked.
“Nothing for me, thanks,” Jordan said.
“Jack and Coke.”
The bartender set the drink on a napkin, and Clint pulled his billfold from his back pocket and glanced at Jordan. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”
“I don’t drink.” Jordan looked around the casino. It looked as though everyone in the place had a drink in front of them.
“You can get a plain Coke if you like.”
“No thanks. I’m good.” Jordan wanted no part of this. He saw the people’s faces, intent on just one more try for big money, captured by these noisy machines.
Clint took his drink and napkin to a table with a slot machine next to it. He put some money in, pulled the crank, and two 7s flashed on the machine along with a cluster of cherries.
“I think I’ll go up to the room.”
Clint sipped his drink, then set the glass on a napkin. “You’re going up to the room now?” He nudged Jordan. “Stick around and try your luck.” He pulled the slot handle and watched the rollers spin. When the machine didn’t pay out, he put more money in and cranked the handle. “Addictive game,” Clint said, his attention completely focused on the machine in front of him.
Jordan said nothing. The trucker’s canceled Michigan run resurfaced, and Jordan thought about the Hartzlers and the other Amish families who depended on a good crop to get through the winter. It felt wrong in the face of such need to put money into the empty belly of a machine.
Clint clutched his drink and motioned for Jordan to follow. He weaved through several rows of slot machines and finally stopped at one back in the corner. “Have a seat.” He patted the stool next to his at the slot and Jordan took it. “This one is the old-fashioned kind. Put coins in, get coins out.”
Clint fed a bunch of quarters into the machine in front of him and did the same to the machine in front of Jordan. “Pull that lever,” he said.
Jordan stared at the machine, his hands lying still in his lap. His mother’s warnings about gambling saturated his mind. The noise all around overwhelmed him.
Clint reached over and pulled the lever on Jordan’s machine.
The spinning wheels stopped and the machine dinged with each coin payout.
“You did it,” Clint shouted. “You just won two hundred bucks.”
Jordan watched the trough fill with coins. He sat there staring at it, not knowing what to do. He wanted to just leave, but Clint snagged an empty bucket from the top of the machine. “Load your winnings into this,” he said, handing it to Jordan, not missing a beat in continuing to play his machine.
Jordan mechanically scooped the coins into the plastic bucket.
“In a few minutes we’ll go to the blackjack table and I’ll show you how to double your winnings,” Clint said, pulling the machine’s lever.
“I can do better than double it.” Tangus rubbed his hands together. “Watch my craft in action. This is my specialty.” Covering Clint’s hand, Tangus glowed crimson as Clint pulled the lever.
Coins dumped into the tray to the sound of the machine playing musical notes.
“Oh yeah. This is gonna be a good night.” Clint scooped the coins into a plastic cup. “We’re going to have a blast.”
The unease inside Jordan grew until he felt like a fidgeting child. “Hey, Clint. I’m tired. I think I’ll go enjoy taking a shower that isn’t in a truck stop.”
Clint tipped back his head and laughed. “I completely understand. But you can shower later. Relax and have fun.” He glanced around the room. “Trucking would be too hard if you didn’t take time to rest and enjoy yourself a little.”
“Yeah, Jordan. This is a great part of the road experience.” Tangus blew into his cupped hands. This was his turf. In this city, he had his choice of those to embody. Jordan included—if he couldn’t entice him with a little coin jingle, then he’d bring out the fireworks. Like father, like son. “Drop a coin. One coin in any machine, and I’ll make you rich.”
Jordan stared at the bucket of coins, the weight beyond what he would have expected.
“Two hundred bucks. That’s nothing,” Tangus said, peering over Jordan’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t be gambling your money. Play what you won. It’s free money.”
“Can I bring you anything from the bar?” The blond woman leaned close to Clint.
“Sure. I’ll have another one of these.” He held up his Daniels and Coke.
“Rum or whiskey?”
“Jack Daniels, please.”
Jordan cleared his throat. “Can I get the room key?”
Clint dug in his pocket and handed Jordan the plastic key card. “Room 708.”
Jordan handed Clint the container of coins. This was certainly a side of Clint he hadn’t seen while on the road. Not that he’d had much of a chance. However, now he understood Clint’s lingering gaze whenever they passed a casino, usually on the outskirts of some town. He’d thought it was the curiosity of it—probably because that’s how Jordan had seen them.
“Good night, son.”
“Good night.”
Jordan trekked to the bank of elevators. “A gambler eventually sells his soul . . .” His mother’s words echoed as he waited for the door to open. She’d made it clear how she didn’t like Jordan working for a racehorse farm. At least the job taught your son how to harness a buggy . . . The elevator dinged and the door slid open. Jordan entered and pressed the seventh-floor button. He looked upward but not at anything in particular. “I know how to harness an Amish buggy now too, Mom.”
Jordan exited the elevator and scanned the gold-plated numbers on the doors until he found room 708. The room was impressive compared to the dumpy motels next to the interstate they stayed in on occasion. It had a refrigerator stocked with miniature liquor bottles, and the bathroom was stocked with miniature bottles of shampoo and lotions, razors, and other things. He’d use the shampoo and razors, but he’d leave the other stuff. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a shower cap or smelling like Rose Dew. He flipped back the shower curtain and turned on the faucet, eager to step into the multiple jets of hot water.
He lingered in his first truly hot shower with decent water flow in weeks. Sitting endless miles on a truck seat had stiffened his joints. The hot water drained the tension from his tight muscles as steam filled the room.
He would have stayed until the water ran out, but he figured that would either be a very long time, or he would rob another hotel guest of their enjoyment of a hot shower.
Rummaging through the duffel bag for clean clothes, he found the blue, collarless shirt. He pulled it out and admired the hand-sewn stitches. He slipped it on, fastened the eye hooks, and stretched out his arms. The right sleeve measured an inch longer than the left, but to him, the shirt was a perfect fit.
Jordan plopped on the bed, took the remote, and clicked through the TV stations. He found each channel littered with gambling advertisements. He opened the drawer of the lamp table and tossed the remote inside, his mother’s warnings against gambling replaying yet again.
He rested his head against the pillow and closed his eyes, thinking his mother must have known about Clint’s gambling. That’s why she was so insistent on reminding him of the dangers.
“Jordan, the Father is calling,” Nathaniel whispered.
Jordan shot off the bed and looked around the room. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but the
room felt different.
“Search for God while He is near. Call out to Him and He will answer.”
The hairs on Jordan’s arm stood on end. He looked around the room again, sure that someone had spoken. Finding the room empty didn’t calm his racing heart. Perhaps the TV would mask the eeriness. Jordan opened the drawer of the lamp table; instead of getting the TV remote as he planned, his searching fingers found a Bible. He brought it out and opened it. His hands trembled as he flipped through the pages. “Where do I begin? I’ve rejected your love for so long . . . Why would you care about someone like me?”
“Jordan, all have sinned. Everyone falls short of the glory of God. Read the page you’ve stopped on,” Nathaniel encouraged.
Jordan skimmed the page. “. . . While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” He continued reading, but he stopped when an odd sensation warmed his core. He reread the scripture, this time aloud. “ ‘Whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.’” Jordan dropped to his knees. “I’m calling on you, Lord. I want to be saved. I want you to be Lord of my life.”
Nathaniel’s pearlescent wings shimmered as he stood beside his charge. “On this day, heaven rejoices. The angels sing, ‘Glory to God. Praise to God, the One who is and who is to come.’ ”
Warm tears trickled down Jordan’s face. He couldn’t explain the overwhelming peacefulness.
“Dry your tears. Do you want people to think of you as weak?” Tangus materialized from the ceiling air vent. “Those ancient words won’t offer comfort.”
“Flee!” Nathaniel’s reverberating voice struck an octave that pinned Tangus against the wall.
