Gilbert stepped into the doorway. “Hey! Sorry. The back door was open.”
“So you walked right in.” Pierce saw Laurie blush. He winked at her.
“I did knock.” Gilbert stood with hands on his hips, rocked up on the balls of his feet much like his dad often did. “I met Dad for lunch in town. I was with him when you called. You know he gets lonely sometimes since Mom passed. Figured I’d come over and see how you’re doing.”
Laurie crossed the room. “Gilbert, would you like something to drink?”
“No, thanks. It’s not like I want to help work or anything. Just sit and watch, heckle the new pastor a little.”
Pierce took a deep breath. “My best friend.”
“That’s me.” Gilbert laughed all over. “Laurie, how do you put up with him?”
“Oh, it’s often a trial.” She gathered her brush and paint, bent and poured the unused portion back into the can. “But you’re hopeless. Why aren’t you married? You need a wife, Gilbert. Someone who’ll give as good as she gets.”
“Got my order in. Haven’t found her yet.”
Laurie grinned. “And since I don’t have a sister, you’re stuck, right?”
Gilbert chuckled, and the tight band of tension around Pierce’s chest released. “Laurie, let the man be.”
She batted her eyelashes. “I’m just asking. There’s nobody special?”
Gilbert looked at Laurie. “No, and I’m too busy working while the new pastor gets settled in his house. This summer I’m going to have the youth start doing community service projects. Take a Saturday and help out a nearby farmer Dad’s done some work for in the past. Guy’s got holes all over his yard. Thought we’d fill them in. Clean out his barn.
“He’s only got one cow now, but there’s enough old hay and mess in there he must’ve had more animals at one time. Stinks so bad, looks so bad, the county’s providing a dumpster.”
Laurie beamed at Gilbert and kissed him on the cheek. Gilbert turned beet red. “What was that for?”
“You might be marriage material yet.”
“Sure.” Pierce tossed him a brush. “Maybe the farmer has a daughter.”
***
Gilbert stayed. Normally, Laurie wouldn’t have minded the company or the help. She would’ve been happy Pierce enjoyed visiting with his childhood friend and co-worker.
But not today. Today she wanted to finish what she sensed was a very important conversation with her husband.
She could only relate this antsy feeling to what she experienced each month waiting to see if she was pregnant, paying special attention to every little nuance about her body.
They finished the second coat, then she fixed a quick meal while Gilbert and Pierce cleaned up.
“I should go,” Gilbert said after they ate. “Big weekend coming up for all of us.”
“No, man. Stay and watch the game.” Pierce took his and Gilbert’s plates to the sink, then headed for the living room.
Gilbert caught her eye and shrugged.
If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought Pierce was avoiding being alone with her. Was he avoiding being alone with her?
She took a shower, scrubbed paint flecks from her hair, and re-joined them for the final innings. The chime clock struck midnight as Gilbert helped them uncover and reposition the furniture in their bedroom, since the paint had dried. And finally, finally Pierce let Gilbert leave.
Then Pierce took a shower.
She sat in the living room. Alone. Flipped channels just to stay awake. When she could no longer sit still, she rose and paced. What was wrong with her? She never paced. Pierce was the pacer.
The unmistakable whoosh of water through the pipes finally stopped with a familiar squeak and shudder. Laurie stilled. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.
You’re being silly, she told herself as her mind reviewed Pierce’s odd behavior that afternoon and evening. He really had looked frightened when she cut herself. Then he’d gone for a walk. She knew Pierce loved walking in the woods, but still …
Laurie heard their bathroom door creak open—on the next trip to Benson’s she’d buy a can of WD-40. She shut off the television, turned out the lamp, and by the full moon’s light found Pierce in bed, huddled under the covers. She readied for bed and climbed in beside him.
“I love you, Pierce.”
“I love you, too.” He turned to her, and she settled back against his chest.
“Are you okay?”
He kissed her shoulder. “I am now.”
Normal, she thought. Everything as it should be.
CHAPTER THREE
Dr. John Bridges bounced down the long lane to his father’s farm in his new, dove-gray F-150 4x4. He’d returned to Rowe City a few weeks ago to work at a local OB/GYN office, and had almost lost a few large pieces of his low-slung Dodge Viper along this cratered path. Buying a new truck was more fun than repairing the driveway or replacing his sports car.
He slowed as he neared the small farmhouse and scanned the dilapidated barn and house with its slanting porch. The disgusting pigpen with its sinking fence, broken trough, and muddy occupants.
The acres he’d worked as a boy stretched before him. Ground that had seasonally disappeared under fluffy white tufts of cotton or twining peanut plants now lay barren. Somehow each time he visited, the place seemed older, more pitiful. Much like his dad.
John walked up the steps and knocked. He eased open the creaky screen door and entered. A single lamp glowed in the living room where his dad slept on the faded, torn couch.
Dad was filthy. Dirt caked his hairless scalp, ringed his neck, and had formed a crust on his hands and fingers and clothing. In short, he reeked. John wasn’t sure the stench was human. Being a doctor, he’d experienced pungent smells during his career, but this aroma wasn’t all Dad’s. It smelled like pig and mud and rot.
He held his breath, crouched, and gently shook his father. “Dad.”
No response.
“Luther,” he tried his father’s given name. “It’s me. John.”
The house needed cleaning almost as much as his dad. When the old man didn’t wake, John decided to deal with the house first. Thank God he had spare rubber gloves in his truck.
He tackled the kitchen first. Cleaning the bathroom before Luther bathed would be a waste of time. Maybe, if the man slept well enough, he could wash himself this time.
He quickly washed the dishes and counters. A mountain of unopened mail covered the table. He tossed flyers and junk mail into an open garbage bag placed on the floor. He stacked the few bills—and several certified letters from an attorney that expressed a client’s interest in purchasing the farm—to the side.
Why wouldn’t Dad read his own mail? Bathe himself? John wasn’t sure if Luther was becoming senile or was simply stubborn. Possibly depressed. He pulled out his cell and noted on his calendar to schedule a check-up for his dad.
John glanced at the sleeping man. Luther looked fairly fit for his age. Walked well. Apparently he still tended the small vegetable garden, on occasion. And the last, single cow in the barn. Then there were the pigs.
John shook his head. Whatever attachment his dad had to the pigs could only be deemed weird. Maybe the man had a “thing” for pigs like some people did for dogs or cats.
But Luther’s bizarre propensity for digging holes around the pig shed was difficult to understand. That’s why his dad was so dirty. Obviously, he’d spent the night digging again instead of sleeping.
The last envelope was from Rowe City Gospel Church and specifically addressed to Luther Bridges. Odd. John couldn’t remember his dad ever talking about church or God or anything like that, let alone attending. Next Sunday was Easter, wasn’t it? John read the letter and stacked it with the bills.
After Luther bathed and ate, John finished sanitizing the bathroom, a huge job in itself. Then they sat together on the crooked front porch.
“Dad, I can arrange some repairs. Get someone to mow the w
eeds behind the house.” They reached higher than the windowsills.
Silence.
“That lawyer’s been sending letters for awhile now. His office isn’t far from mine.”
“Not talking to him.”
John sighed. “Okay.”
Minutes passed.
“That church group offered to clean out the barn.” Manure and old hay—probably dating back to John’s teen years—filled the structure, leaving barely enough room for the cow under its leaky roof. “They also offered to work in the yard.” Like filling in the holes.
“They can clean the barn.”
“But Dad, the holes are dangerous. You could fall—”
“The barn. Nothing else.”
John looked toward the dormant fields. This was one of the longest conversations he had ever had with his dad—the man who had given him a roof over his head, chores after school, and one-sentence orders on weekends, but never affection. The subject? The barn and some holes in the ground.
He clearly remembered applying to college, seeking a full-ride scholarship. Being only sixteen at the time, the forms required a parent’s signature. Luther had scrawled his name, grunted, and told him to stay out of trouble. Two months later, John boarded a bus waiting at the end of the driveway and took his first plane ride, leaving behind the farm where he had lived since his fourth birthday.
“Dad. Let them clean up the yard a little.”
His dad simply stared over the land, now golden in the setting sun. “No.”
“Why?”
Silence.
“Dad, I can’t come every day. Let me take care of some things. Let these people help.”
“The holes stay.” His dad rose, snapped his fingers at the saggy russet cow, and walked to the barn.
John stayed seated. As the barn door eased closed behind his dad and the cow, a steady, soaking rain began. It washed the air, removing the gritty, tickling dust that coated the countryside. With each drop, the land seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe, if it persisted, the lullaby from the tin roof would help Luther sleep through the night instead of rising to dig in the dark.
Finally the rain faded to a drizzle. John rose. He walked to the end of the porch and looked toward the pig shed. The drenching rain filled in the holes as if healing the land of its scars.
CHAPTER FOUR
Pierce grinned like a kid on the first day of summer vacation. His perfect world all but burst with sunshine. And that flawless perfection started with Laurie, who sat at his side for the Palm Sunday morning service in The Barn Church as they listened to his dad speak.
As usual, laughter rippled through the crowd. And, as usual, Deacon Floyd—whose booming hah! could be heard above everyone else’s chuckle—received the standard elbow-jab from his wife. Which, of course, did nothing to stop his outburst.
Dad could have been a stand-up comedian. More than once, Pastor Daniel Crane had lured in new members with dry humor and self-deprecating stories. The tales had multiplied over the years and often involved Pierce. Now Laurie appeared to be a target—she’d looked so bewildered two days ago when she discovered the front door was missing. Couldn’t we all relate to expecting one thing, then getting another?
Pierce’s dad delivered the perfect segue. “… and that’s just how the disciples felt between the Triumphant Entry on Palm Sunday and the Crucifixion that same week.”
Laurie nudged Pierce. “Give me a few weeks before you use me in any stories,” she whispered.
She didn’t have to worry. Pierce didn’t thrive on humor like his dad did.
He remembered in vivid detail the first time he entered a church. He’d been living with his new parents for only a few days. One bright morning, when the sun was high and the sanctuary empty, Daniel had pulled open the heavy double doors and taken him inside.
The big barn building, with its dark, knotted wood, smelled familiar. A little musty, with a heavy tang of polish. Support beams stood straight as soldiers, their bases splinter-free, smooth from innumerable animal hides and human hands brushing against them through the years. Stains dotted the clean-swept, concrete floor, its surface pitted and chipped from animal’s hooves and men’s boots.
It was a barn, but it wasn’t. The building seemed special and held a different kind of quiet.
With one hand cradled in Daniel’s, Pierce walked up the center aisle between long, wooden pews. Their slow footsteps and low voices echoed, gently bouncing off the arched ceiling.
“Pierce, have you ever been in a church before?”
Pierce shyly shook his head. As they walked, he trailed his loose hand over the ends of the pews and peeked up, wondering if Daniel would stop him from doing so.
He didn’t.
“This is where I work,” Daniel said. “It’s quiet in here now, but during a service there’s lots of music and singing. Then I preach. I talk to everyone about God and His love, how He wants to help people and be a part of their lives.”
They stopped at the front behind an upright wooden box with a big, flat top that Daniel called a pulpit. Pierce couldn’t see over it even when he stood on his tiptoes.
“This is where I stand,” Daniel said from behind him, then pointed to the first bench on the right. “That’s where you’ll sit with your mother. Everyone will want to meet you. You may have to shake hands with some folks you’ve never met. Then we’ll walk back home, across the church yard, down the trail through the tall trees, the way we came today.”
Pierce looked up and stretched his neck back as far as he could to see the thick rafters and pitched ceiling. Daniel lifted him as the sunlight shone through the loft windows over the main doors, producing a shimmering rainbow spotlight all the way to the floor beside them. Pierce raised his little arms, reaching with spread fingers, trying to grasp the brightness and colors.
Daniel held him there, raised him higher as dust motes swirled and danced, until the sun moved and the rainbow disappeared. Several minutes must have passed. Daniel’s arms had surely cramped.
This was Pierce’s first memory of church. Of peaceful quiet. Of being held by loving arms in beautiful, warm light.
Daniel had carried him past the small fenced cemetery at the building’s edge and continued toward home.
“Does God know where people go when they die?” Pierce whispered, not sure what to make of the grave markers jutting up from the ground.
“Yes.” Leaves and pine needles crunched under Daniel’s steps. “Yes, He does.”
“Does He know where I am?”
Daniel kissed Pierce’s head, pulled a stick of Juicy Fruit from his pocket, and tore it in half. “Yes, He does. Want some?”
Pierce smiled at the memory. Daniel hadn’t changed much. He still preferred the same sweet gum, often popping and snapping it on purpose when Kay was near. The building’s exterior had also remained the same. Kay had insisted they keep the original colors and textures. The original gray-brown looked welcoming, she’d said. So the iron hardware for the broad double doors had been painstakingly restored. The wavy-glassed windows that sat crooked and low on the slatted walls had been salvaged, too. Even the horse silhouette window in the loft had been preserved. Daniel’s only stipulation: a cross to replace the weathervane—every person needed a point in the right direction now and then.
Thankfully, the inside of the main building had gotten lots of attention. Air conditioning. Carpet. Offices and a hall sectioned off at the back to include a nursery. Padding had been added to the unforgiving pews.
True to form, Daniel slipped in a final joke before ending his sermon and handing a microphone to Deacon Floyd, who looked straight at Pierce and Laurie.
“When Pastor first told me of his plan to retire, well, frankly, I didn’t want to hear it. I mean, I’m older than he is, and God hasn’t let me retire yet! But as those of us on the board prayed about a new leader for our church, it became clear there was only one right choice. Pierce. Laurie. We’d like to welcome you and pray for you two
this morning.”
Laurie squeezed his hand. “Pierce, I feel so much love from these people.”
The congregation stood. The deacon raised a large, pink-palmed hand to heaven and prayed aloud.
***
Laurie entered the smaller, barn-turned-youth building and stopped in stunned amazement beside Pierce. Enough food to feed a small village, possibly a large one, covered rows of tables. She grabbed a plate.
Smoked hams with thick, deep-garnet skin covered a dozen platters on tables placed end to end. Roasts, which must have been rolled in black pepper before baking, filled deep serving dishes. Seasoned fried chicken overflowed cast iron pots and foil-lined buckets. Literal buckets of fried chicken. She speared a breast and thigh and continued moving down the tables.
Vegetables dotted the buffet, a culinary color wheel. Bowls of orange yams. Corn both yellow and white. Green broccoli swam in cheesy sauce beside darker collard greens. Bottles of vinegar rested alongside. Jars of hot peppers—red, yellow, and green—beckoned the unaware and dared the brave to taste a blistering sample. Laurie’s stomach rumbled. While loading a second plate, she almost drooled on herself.
And Pierce, God bless him, directed her to his parents’ table while he went straight to the desserts and got her a slice each of two different chocolate cakes.
“You’re going to love this one.” He set the slice slathered with a decadent cherry sauce before her like an offering. “Milly Newman makes it. It practically drips off your fork.”
“Then maybe I’ll eat it first.”
“Of course you can eat it first.” Daniel beamed a smile at Laurie. “Sure didn’t eat much the other day.”
“I’m fine, Dad. I was just tired.” She leaned toward Pierce and whispered, “Can you help me out here? Get the attention off me?”
“Sure. Watch this.
“Hey, Dad.” He glanced around the table. “The other day I told Laurie about the time you and I camped in the woods between the house and here. You know, when you left me out there and snuck into the sanctuary to sleep on a pew?”
“Son, you were supposed to keep that between you and me.”
The Spindle Chair Page 4
