A Change of Heart

by Philip Gulley

  Sam grimaced. “Did you try Ellis Hodge?” he asked Dolores.

  “He and Miriam are visiting her sister. Don’t you remember? They asked for prayers for her yesterday in church. She’s got thrombosis.”

  “I have an idea,” he said, cursing his bad luck even as he spoke. “Why don’t I come by and drive you and Dale to the hospital?”

  “Oh, Sam, thank you. When can you be here?”

  “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  “See you then.”

  He hung up the phone, his shoulders slumping, bowed in defeat. “There goes my day off.”

  “A day off. Boy, wouldn’t that be nice.”

  So much for a sympathetic ear.

  He tromped upstairs to brush his teeth, comb his hair, and change his shirt. Days like this, he wished he sold shoes. Eight to five, an hour for lunch, weekends off, no meetings at night, no disgruntled customers phoning his house to complain, plus a 50 percent discount on shoes. A sweet deal, if you could swing it.

  His car was low on gas, so he stopped past Logan’s Mobil to top it off. He drove over the rubber hose and could hear the bell sounding inside the garage. Though Logan’s is full service, it is painfully slow. The sign out front says Same Day Service, which the uninitiated might think is a reference to engine repairs, but it isn’t. That’s how long it takes Nate Logan to scoot out from underneath a car, wash his hands, and make his way out to the pumps, where he eventually fills the tank, though not before complaining about his bad knees or various other maladies.

  Sam had learned long ago not to ask Nate how he was unless he was prepared to spend the day listening.

  For years, people have been pleading with Nate to make it a self-serve station, but he’s resisted. Full service is his way of guaranteeing a captive audience. He sets the pump on the first notch and jabbers away for the fifteen minutes it takes to fill the tank. Only after the pump has shut off does he bother to check the oil and wash the windshield, maintaining a steady monologue all the while.

  Sam was ten minutes late. By the time he arrived, Dale and Dolores were standing at the end of their driveway, suitcases in hand. Sam lifted their bags into the trunk, then opened the back door for them to get in.

  “I better ride up front,” Dale said. “Otherwise, I’ll get carsick and throw up everywhere.”

  What a day this is going to be, Sam thought miserably.

  They drove through town to Main Street, then headed east toward the interstate. Fifteen minutes later they were sandwiched between two semis, hurtling along at seventy miles an hour. Sam had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel while Dale yammered in his right ear.

  “Sure hope those doctors are Christians,” he said.

  “What’s their religion got to do with anything?” Sam asked. “There are plenty of wonderful surgeons who aren’t Christian.”

  “I read in my Mighty Men of God magazine about this pastor in Alabama getting operated on and his doctors was Muslim and they found out he was a Christian while he was bein’ operated on and they tried to kill him right there on the table and would have if one of the nurses hadn’t been Christian and shot ’em dead. Thank the Lord for a God-fearing woman, that’s all I can say.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Dale. I never heard of that happening.”

  “And do you really think you would with the liberal press we have in this country?” He reached up and removed the large cross he customarily wore around his neck. “No use agitatin’ them when they got a scalpel not six inches from my throat.” He passed it back to Dolores. “Why don’t you keep this in your purse until after my surgery. Don’t want to wave a red flag in their faces.”

  They rode on in silence for a half hour. Sam was hesitant to speak, fearing it might give Dale a new topic and he’d be off to the races. Dolores would occasionally comment favorably about a passing barn or farmhouse, and Sam would nod his head agreeably. After a while, the hum of the road lulled the Hinshaws to sleep and Sam relaxed, almost enjoying the trip.

  Thirty miles south of the city, Dale revived. He yawned and stretched, then rubbed his eyes. The farmland changed into suburbs, and the fields gave way to beige homes arrayed in domino lines.

  “Sure hope I don’t get a woman’s heart,” Dale said. He turned to Sam, “You think they’d do that to me?”

  “I’m not sure, Dale. I don’t know much about this kind of thing. But I’m sure if they give you a woman’s heart, it’ll be all right.”

  Dale harrumphed. “I was listening to Brother Eddie on his radio program and he was talking about organ transplants and he’s not for them. Do you ever listen to him?”

  Brother Eddie had a loose bolt above his neck and for years had plied the nighttime airwaves with his twaddle. Sam had listened to him in college for kicks. “Not for a long while,” he answered Dale.

  “Anyway, he was talking about this man who got a woman’s heart and the next thing you know he’d turned into a homosexual and was wearing high heels and everything. Had a wife and three kids, was a deacon in his church, sang in the choir, and belonged to the Kiwanas. And he left all that to run off with some artist fella and now they wear dresses and sing in nightclubs. Brother Eddie had actually known the man.” He shook his head at the depravity of it.

  “Hasn’t Brother Eddie also predicted the end of the world about a dozen times so far?”

  “I don’t know about that. Maybe once or twice,” Dale conceded. “That don’t mean he’s wrong all the time.”

  Sam exited the interstate and turned onto a surface street that carried them to the hospital. He pulled up to the front entrance and deposited Dale and Dolores, then went to park his car. When he returned, he found Dale and Dolores standing near the registration desk. Dale was gawking at a crucifix mounted on the wall. He leaned over and whispered to Sam, “I didn’t know this was a Catholic hospital.”

  “Why’s that matter? It’s a good hospital. One of the best in the nation for transplants.”

  “Hope they don’t give me a Catholic heart, that’s all. You know they put people under to operate on ’em and sneak in a priest to baptize ’em. They do the same thing if you’re in an accident. You’ll be layin’ in the street with a car on top of you and a priest is praying over you and the next thing you know you’re sayin’ the rosary and eatin’ fish on Fridays. Promise you won’t let ’em baptize me, Sam.”

  People were beginning to stare at them, frowning.

  “Sure, Dale, I promise.”

  Fortunately, a nurse appeared and whisked Dale away to prepare him for the surgery. It was nearing lunchtime, so Sam and Dolores went to the cafeteria to begin their long wait. It was crowded with doctors and nurses, but they found a small table in one corner. Dolores nibbled the edges of her hamburger, clearly distracted. “You do think he’ll make it, don’t you, Sam?”

  Sam reached across the table and patted her hand. “He’s going to be fine.”

  The intercom over their heads sputtered to life. “Could Dolores Hinshaw please come to the surgery waiting room. Dolores Hinshaw, to the surgery waiting room.”

  “Oh my Lord, he’s dead already,” she cried, leaping to her feet.

  To his shame, Sam’s first thought was that with Dale dead, he wouldn’t have to spend his whole day at the hospital after all. Then his pastoral instincts kicked in, and he hurried out of the cafeteria and down the hallway after Dolores.

  “What’s wrong with my husband?” Dolores asked the woman behind the waiting-room desk.

  “The doctor will be out with you in a moment, ma’am. Why don’t you have a seat.”

  Sam steered Dolores to a chair, then sat beside her. He glanced around the waiting room, studying the people, most of whom were staring slack-jawed at the television.

  Thirty minutes and two magazines later, a doctor emerged and caught Dolores’s eye.

  “Mrs. Hinshaw?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Just wanted to let you know we’re starting things up.” He outlined the p
rocedure, trying to put Dolores at ease, and then turned to Sam. “Are you their son?”

  Heaven forbid, Sam thought. “Sam Gardner,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m the Hinshaws’ pastor.”

  “Oh, I see. Yes, I had the impression Mr. Hinshaw was deeply religious.”

  You don’t know the half of it, Sam thought.

  “He kept asking me if I was saved. I told him I was Episcopalian.”

  “Very interesting,” Sam said.

  “Probably the anesthesia,” the doctor guessed. “Sometimes it makes people say funny things.”

  “That must have been it,” Sam agreed hastily.

  “Well, I just wanted to touch base with the family before we did the surgery.”

  “How long will it take?” Dolores asked.

  “Depends on what we find when we get in there, but probably no more than six hours. So why don’t you relax, maybe get a bite to eat. We’ll send someone out every hour or so to let you know how things are going.”

  He gave Dolores an Episcopalian hug—modest but heartfelt—then excused himself.

  Sam steered Dolores to a quiet corner, away from the television, and sat beside her. An hour passed. They’d worked the crossword puzzle and the word search and had settled in for a long wait, when a flurry of activity by the registration desk caught their attention.

  “There they are,” Asa Peacock said, pointing at Sam and Dolores.

  It appeared half the town had come: Asa’s wife, Jessie; Dale’s barber, Kyle Weathers; Bea and Opal Majors; Oscar and Livinia Purdy from the Dairy Queen; Mabel Morrison and the lovely Deena Morrison; Vinny and Penny from the Coffee Cup; Bob Miles from the Herald; Frank the secretary; Morey Lefter; Hester Gladden; Stanley Farlow; Fern Hampton; and Judy Iverson and her Chinese twins. At the back of the bunch, looking awkwardly about, stood Ralph and Sandy Hodge.

  Dolores, clearly moved, began to weep. “I can’t believe you’re all here.”

  “First heart transplant in Harmony,” Bob Miles said, settling into a chair beside Sam. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Say, you think they’d let me in to take a few pictures?”

  “Barbara wanted to come, but she couldn’t find a babysitter,” Frank told Sam. “She’s the one who called everybody. We got the chain of prayer going.” He turned to face Dolores. “How you holding up?”

  “The Baptists loaned us their bus. Morey drove us,” Asa said. “They’re praying for you too.”

  “All the churches are,” Frank said. “I called ’em all. Called the Quaker superintendent too. They’re e-mailing all the meetings.”

  Sam sat in his chair, utterly dazed, verging on tears. What wonderful, beautiful people, he thought. They make me so crazy, I could scream sometimes, and then they go and do something like this. Dear Lord, thank You for each and every one of them. Make me more like them.

  “Anybody care for a Dilly Bar?” Oscar Purdy asked. “Brought a whole cooler of them.”

  And so the afternoon passed. Twenty-four Harmonians, gathered in a circle, nibbling on Dilly Bars, fussing over Dolores, entertained by the Chinese twins, who turned somersaults to spirited applause, then occasionally falling silent to pray for a man whose recovery they would likely one day regret, but whom their Christian faith called them to love nonetheless.

  Fifteen

  A Serving of Guilt

  The Monday before Thanksgiving found Sam Gardner at home, resting in his easy chair, surveying that week’s edition of the Herald.

  “Did you know that pound for pound, hamburger costs more than a new car?” he asked Barbara.

  “I had no idea. Who told you that?”

  “It says so right here in the Herald. And brown sugar won’t harden if you store it in the freezer.”

  “You’re a fount of information,” Barbara said.

  Sam turned the page to the “Twenty-five Years Ago This Week” column. “Looks like I made the newspaper.”

  “What did you do now?”

  Sam read aloud, “Sam Gardner, the son of Charles and Gloria Gardner, was the recipient of the Ora Crandell Memorial Scholarship. He will receive a fifty-dollar scholarship to the college of his choice and a shoe-care kit, compliments of Morrison’s Menswear.”

  “Do you still have it?” Barbara asked.

  “The shoe-care kit?”

  “No, the fifty dollars.”

  “Spent it a long time ago,” Sam reported.

  “Rats. I wanted to eat out tonight.”

  “Looks like you’re out of luck.” He turned the page and scanned the church news. “Unless you want to eat with the Methodists in Cartersburg. They’re holding an early Thanksgiving dinner tonight for the poor. Want to go?”

  “We probably don’t qualify,” Barbara pointed out.

  “We could wear old clothes. They’d never guess.”

  “You are a sick man, Sam Gardner.”

  “Nope, just hungry. What’s for lunch?”

  “Baloney sandwiches and Cheetos?”

  “Sounds good to me. You fix it, and I’ll do the dishes.”

  “You’re on,” Barbara agreed.

  Sam lived for Mondays. The kids were in school, their phone was off the hook, and Frank the secretary was under strict instructions not to disturb him unless someone died. The afternoon stretched before him, an unpainted canvas of relaxation.

  “Want to go for a walk after lunch?” Barbara asked.

  “Sure.”

  They left the house after lunch, heading south past the school and the Co-op and out into the country. The leaves had fallen and it was a bright, crisp day. The crops had been harvested, and cornstalks lay wounded in a field, cut off at the knees.

  A pickup truck lurched into view and rolled to a stop beside them. Ellis Hodge rolled down his window. “Hey, Sam. Hey, Barbara. Need a ride?”

  “No, thank you. We’re just out for a little fresh air,” Sam explained. “How’s Ellis doing?”

  “If I was any better, I’d be twins. Got the crops in and heading into town to give the bank all my money. Say, I saw you mentioned in the newspaper, Sam. I’d forgotten all about you winning the Ora Crandell award.”

  “My claim to fame.”

  “How’s the family?” Barbara asked.

  “We’re all doing fine.”

  “How about Ralph and Sandy? How are they?”

  Sam gave Barbara a discreet kick in the ankle. She was wandering into dangerous territory. Probably on purpose, knowing her. Ellis’s obstinacy regarding his brother annoyed her to no end.

  “Still alive, I reckon,” Ellis said rather grumpily.

  “It must be nice to have a brother,” Barbara continued, seemingly oblivious to Ellis’s discomfort. “I always wanted a brother, but never had one.”

  “You can have mine,” Ellis offered.

  “Ellis Hodge, you ought to be ashamed of—”

  “Ellis, you have a nice day,” Sam interrupted, nudging Barbara along. “We need to finish our walk. Give Miriam and Amanda our best.”

  Ellis assured them he would, then accelerated away toward town.

  “Would you stop picking on that poor man,” Sam said. “Every time you see him, you ask about his brother. Has it ever occurred to you that he might not want to talk about it?”

  “I just thought that, since you won’t encourage him to forgive his brother, I would.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Sam said. “You can’t compel someone to forgive someone else. And try seeing it from Ellis’s perspective. If Ralph had neglected our sons, would you be eager to forgive him?”

  Barbara didn’t answer.

  “He just needs time,” Sam said. “Ellis is a good guy. He’ll come around.”

  They walked another mile, to the edge of Stanley Farlow’s old farm, before turning around and heading back home. Barbara was a little peeved, Sam could tell. After a while, the water tower came into view.

  “Have I ever told you how my grandparents met?” Sam asked.

  “About a million time
s.”

  Sam chuckled. By now they were at the edge of town, walking past the cemetery on the hill above the school. “I wonder what’s harder,” Sam mused. “Whether it’s harder to change or to make people believe you’ve changed.”

  “Probably it’s harder to get people to believe you’ve changed.”

  “That would certainly explain Ellis’s attitude,” Sam said.

  “You know, a guy like Ralph doesn’t stand a chance. He’s been an alcoholic for so many years no one can believe he’s different. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started drinking again.”

  Sam thought for a moment. “It must be tough being Ralph Hodge. Ever since they’ve come back, I’ve been wondering what I would say to him if he came to me for advice. My life has been so easy, I’m not sure what I could say that wouldn’t sound like a mindless platitude.”

  They passed the school just as the bell rang and the kids flooded out the front doors. They spied their sons amid the surging mob and called out their names. Addison, still too young to be embarrassed by his parents, came running toward them. Levi, their older one, was clearly mortified at his mother and father’s presence. In front of his friends, no less.

  “We’re over here, honey,” Barbara called out, waving.

  His friends snickered. Levi frowned, turned, and began walking in the other direction.

  “I don’t think he likes being called honey,” Sam observed.

  Barbara sighed.

  “Look on the bright side,” Sam said. “They’ll be going off to college before we know it, and we can sleep in and not have to drink from jelly glasses.”

  “Or open the refrigerator and find that someone put an empty milk carton back in,” Barbara added.

  “Or find wet bath towels underneath their beds.”

  “Don’t forget sticky doorknobs and potato chips between the couch cushions.”

  “So will we travel the world and learn how to cook exotic dishes and read all the books we were supposed to have read in college?” Barbara asked.

  “Probably not,” Sam said. “But I’ll take you to the Masonic Lodge fish fry if you want and we can read the Herald.”