Twenty-One
A House Divided
The snow left as quickly as it had come. A rare southern wind blew the clouds away, the sun made its first appearance in a week, and by eleven o’clock the needle on the large thermometer nailed to the side of Dale Hinshaw’s garage had swung clockwise to sixty-two degrees. Snow was falling off the roofs in large, wet clumps, spilling down the necks of unsuspecting persons as they left their homes for their Saturday errands.
Ellis Hodge couldn’t remember the last time the temperature had varied so greatly in the space of a day, but had recalled reading something about it and spent several hours poring over past issues of The Farmer’s Almanac in intense research.
“Here it is. I knew it was in here somewhere,” he said, reading aloud, even though Miriam and Amanda had gone for a walk and he was the only one at home. “Sioux City, Iowa, May 16, 1997. Thirty-three degrees in the morning, and ninety-one degrees that afternoon. I’ll be darned. Just think of that.”
He bent the corner of the page so he could show it to Miriam and Amanda when they returned, hoping it might ease the strain they’d been living under since he’d popped Ralph in the nose. Amanda had barely spoken to him since, and Miriam had been feeding him soup from a can.
Back in town, Bob Miles was seated at his desk in the Herald building. Inspired by the weather, he was pecking out an editorial about global warming. That’ll bring the kooks out of the woodwork, he thought to himself. Bob has reached that liberating age when he no longer cares what others think of him.
Just the week before, Eunice Muldock had canceled Harvey’s weekly advertisement. At her behest, Bob had attended the monthly meeting of the Red Hat Society, taken their picture, and pasted it on the front page of the paper underneath the headline Old Bats in Red Hats. Infuriating people, Bob had learned over the years, was the only way of ensuring he wasn’t invited to attend every meeting in town. A year or two would pass, memories would fade, and he’d have to insult some people all over again.
He finished typing his editorial and placed it in the basket of articles to be included in the next edition, on top of a letter from Dale Hinshaw, in which Dale, alarmed by Satan’s inroads among the youth of Harmony, had urged “God-fearing Christians to march on the devil’s camp and set the captives free!”
Like most of Dale’s letters, it rambled. He began by taking a swing at Darwin, then took a poke at rap musicians and civil libertarians, suggesting some people had gotten a little carried away with the First Amendment and maybe it was time to crack down, maybe imprison a few people, lest Satan steal away more of their youth.
Bob reread the letter and sighed. What he wouldn’t give for a thoughtful letter to the editor.
At that moment, Dale Hinshaw was seated at his kitchen table, pen in hand, drawing a sketch. “I tell you what, Dolores, this could be even bigger than the Scripture eggs. Here’s what we do. We rent us a crane and haul it over to the football field at the high school and we get someone who loves the Lord and has a heart for young people and we heft them up in the air maybe fifty feet or so and then cut the rope and let ’em fall to the ground.”
“And what would be the purpose of this?” Dolores asked.
“Shows the kids how Satan promises to lift you up, but lets you down every time. See, we paint the word Satan right on the crane and they see that and get the message.”
“Who did you have in mind to drop to their death?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe somebody who was gettin’ set to die anyway. Maybe Alice Stout. She’s sorta slippin’. Might be doing her a favor.”
“Don’t you think her children would object?” Dolores asked.
“Now why would they do that? You think how much that nursing home is costing them. Besides, this way it’s over with quick and she’s eating at the heavenly banquet before we’re even back to our cars.”
“Why don’t we think about this some more before we mention it to anybody,” Dolores suggested.
Dale snorted. That was the problem with Christians nowadays: they were utterly lacking in conviction. Time was, Christians would have been happy to jump to their deaths, back in the olden days, when people loved the Lord.
He went to bed early that night, worn to a nub from worrying about Satan. He could scarcely wait until Tuesday. He lay still, the covers pulled up to his chin, thinking of Mrs. Betty Bartley and her husband’s heart beating inside him. He thought of the crane and where he could rent it, then contemplated buying one and taking it on the road from school to school across the country, leading youth from their wayward path. He wondered if that was why the Lord had spared him. Then, for the briefest of moments, he wondered if maybe the Lord wanted him to fall from the crane. No, he didn’t think so. He was a general in the Lord’s army, after all, not a foot soldier.
He and Dolores skipped Sunday school the next morning. Sam had been leading a discussion on social issues, for crying out loud, blathering on about helping the poor and capital punishment and whatnot.
“What in the heydiddle does any of that have to do with Jesus?” he asked Dolores.
During worship, when Sam asked if there were any prayer concerns, Dale mentioned that the Lord might be leading him to a new work, but he wasn’t sure. He was praying about it, and would others join him in prayer? Without waiting to see if they were willing, he launched into a prayer beseeching the Lord to do first one thing and then another, calling God’s attention to things He no doubt would have missed, were Dale not around to point them out. “And Lord, we know that sometimes you call us to go the extra measure, maybe even ask some of us to give our lives for your sake. So if you’re needing any of us to die here in the next couple of months, I just hope whoever it is will do it without complaining.” He glanced over at Alice Stout, seated in the fourth row, her mind skipping in a groove like a broken record.
Maybe I’m being too subtle, he thought.
They spent the next two days cleaning their home in anticipation of Mrs. Bartley’s arrival. True to her word, she pulled in their driveway at eleven o’clock. They watched as she alighted from a Volvo station wagon, a youngish-going-on-early-middle-aged woman, attractive in a competent sort of way.
“She’s not wearing black,” Dale observed. “Aren’t widows supposed to wear black for a year?”
“I think they’ve changed the rules,” Dolores said. “Just black to the funeral and that’s all.”
Their discussion was cut short by the sound of their doorbell. The Doxology reverberated throughout their small home. Dale sang along, as was his custom, while Dolores opened the door to greet Mrs. Bartley.
“Call me Betty,” she said, shaking hands with Dolores, while glancing at Dale, who at that moment was praising Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
“Dale Hinshaw here,” he said, foregoing the “Amen” and thumping his chest with a flourish.
Dolores ushered them into the living room, where they sat across from one another.
“Care for a Scripture cookie?” Dale asked. “They’re like fortune cookies, but they have the Word in them instead.”
“Why, uh, yes, thank you,” Betty Bartley said, reaching for a cookie.
“Tell us all about your husband,” Dolores said. “I’m sure he was a wonderful man to want to donate his organs.”
Betty Bartley’s chin began to tremble. “He was wonderful. He was so…” She paused to compose herself. “So gentle, so kind. He cared so much about other people.”
“What did he do?” Dale asked.
“He was an attorney. He worked for a law firm doing their pro bono work. Took all the cases no one else wanted. Mostly helping poor people.”
“Funny you should say that,” Dale said. “I never really cared for lawyer shows on TV, but ever since the transplant, I watch ’em all the time. Remember, Dolores, I was talking about that just the other day.” He turned to Betty Bartley. “Do you like watching lawyer shows?”
“I don’t watch much television,” she admitted.
She thought for a moment. “I don’t think I’ve seen him.”
“You’d know it if you had. He’s only got the one leg. Leans toward the right.”
Don’t all of them, Betty Bartley thought, starting to wonder if her husband’s heart had been wasted.
“Tell us more about your husband,” Dolores said. “What were his hobbies? Where was he from?”
“He grew up on a farm in southern Illinois.”
“I grew up on a farm too,” Dale said. “Then sold insurance.”
“He liked to do woodworking,” Betty Bartley added.
“So do I,” Dale said. “I built that windmill in our front yard.”
“Oh, and he loved this country.” She leaned back in her chair, smiling at a pleasant memory. “He always talked about how blessed we were to live in America.”
“No finer place,” Dale said agreeably.
“He could recite the Declaration of Independence and the Bill of Rights from memory. Every Fourth of July, we’d have a party and he’d stand up on our picnic table and say them both by heart. He said they were the finest documents ever written.”
Dale frowned slightly. “’Course the Bible’s up there too.”
“Oh, yes, he appreciated the Bible,” Betty Bartley added. “He especially liked the book of Proverbs.”
“And he belonged to a conversation club, he liked to fish, and he was a member of the American Civil Liberties Union. He was very passionate about our freedoms.”
Dale blanched. A trickle of sweat erupted near his hairline and coursed down his forehead. He opened his mouth to speak, but for the first time in his life, words failed him.
Dolores, noting his condition, changed the subject. “How many children do you have?”
“We didn’t have any children. We weren’t able. But we have three nephews and two nieces, and he was very close to them.”
“Aren’t they the folks who sued to get prayer out of school?” Dale asked.
“My nieces and nephews? No, they’re just children. They haven’t sued anyone.”
“No, the American Civil Liberties Union. They’re the ones who won’t let us put up the Ten Commandments?”
“That’s not true. You can put the Ten Commandments anywhere you wish, as long as it’s not on public property. And you can even put them there, so long as they’re part of a display with other historical documents,” Betty Bartley explained.
Dale felt his heart begin to thump, then skip a beat. He moaned, then fell back in his chair, nearly slumping to the floor. How could the Lord do this to him? After all he’d done for Him? Gave him the heart of a liberal! He wished he were dead.
“Dale, honey, are you all right?” Dolores asked, rising to her feet.
“The American Civil Liberties Union?” he croaked. “He belonged to the American Civil Liberties Union?”
“A card-carrying member for fifteen years,” Betty Bartley said proudly. “Even served on the board of the state chapter. You’ve got the heart of a patriot beating inside you, Mr. Hinshaw.”
This did little to ease Dale’s distress.
Lunch was not the pleasant affair they’d anticipated. A ghastly pall had descended over Dale, and he ate half-heartedly, picking at his food. Dolores, in an effort to revive the conversation, asked Betty Bartley more questions about her husband and was rewarded with another sordid revelation: Mr. Bartley counted among his ancestors numerous Unitarians.
Dale pushed his plate aside. Sweat rolled down his face, now streaked a fevered red. “I don’t feel so good. I think I’m gonna lay down.”
“Is it your stomach?” Dolores asked.
“Something just north of there,” he said glumly, rubbing his incision, which in the past hour had begun to itch something fierce.
Mrs. Betty Bartley excused herself to go visit a woman in Kokomo who’d gotten her husband’s skin.
As Dale lay on the couch, the sun shone through their thinly woven draperies, causing speckled shadows across his face, giving him the appearance of being struck with a fearsome pox.
“Get Sam over here,” he said, his voice weak and raspy. “I need him to pray for me before I cross over.”
Dolores called Sam at home, who promised to be there as soon as he could. She sat beside Dale on the couch, smoothing back his hair and wiping his brow.
He appeared to be breathing his last, as if his body were at war, a house divided against itself, soon to fall. “Better hurry,” he groaned. “I think they finally got me this time.”
“Who got you, honey? What do you mean?”
“The liberals. They’ve been after me for years. Looks like they finally succeeded. Who’d have thought it? Let my guard down for one moment, and they slipped a liberal heart in me just knowing I’d reject it.”
And with that, his body gave a great shudder, his eyes closed, and deep in his lungs a morbid rattle began to sound, like a viperous snake about to strike.
Twenty-Two
A Change of Heart
Sam Gardner sat in the hospital waiting room slumped in his chair, nearly asleep. He glanced at his watch, five minutes before midnight, and was relieved to see an end to what had been his most dreadful day in ministry. It had begun innocently enough, with a quiet morning at the office following by a pleasant lunch at home with his wife. Dolores Hinshaw’s phone call had changed everything.
It had taken him five minutes to reach the Hinshaws’ home, where he’d found Dale lying on the couch, clammy, listless, and incoherent. He’d taken one look at Dale and calculated that by the time Johnny Mackey arrived with his ambulance Dale might well be dead. So he loaded the Hinshaws in his car and lit out for the hospital in Cartersburg.
Dale revived within a few hours, cheered by the doctor’s news that, even though his heart’s previous owner had been a liberal, political perspectives were not contagious and Dale could expect to live the remainder of his life as hidebound as before.
“Thank the Lord,” Dale said, his voice gaining strength by the moment.
Sam had driven them home at three o’clock, walking them to the door and promising to touch base with them the next day. He drove the three blocks to his house, pulled his car into the garage, and walked through the back door just as Barbara hung up the phone, visibly upset and near tears.
“That was Miriam. Amanda’s been in a wreck. A dump truck driver ran a stop sign. They’ve lifelined her to the hospital in the city and need you up there just as quick as you can. She and Ellis are just now getting ready to leave.”
“Call Frank and let him know,” Sam said. “Have him get the chain of prayer going. But first call Miriam back. Tell her I’ll be by to pick them up. They’ve got no business driving in their state of mind.”
Miriam and Ellis were standing by the road next to their mailbox when Sam arrived. Miriam was pacing in circles, tears streaming down her face. Ellis was trying to console her and failing miserably. Sam helped them in the car, turned around in the driveway, and sped toward the city.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
“It’s all my fault,” Miriam said. She choked the words out, barely able to speak for the spasms of grief coursing through her. “Ellis didn’t want her to drive, but I told him we couldn’t keep her at home forever. Now I’ve probably killed her.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Ellis said, his voice trembling with distress. “This could have happened to anybody. The sheriff said it wasn’t even her fault. The other driver ran the stop sign. There was nothing she could have done.”
Then they fell silent, praying to themselves as the miles rolled away.
It took an hour and a half to reach the outskirts of the city, then another hour to m
ake their way to the hospital through the rush-hour traffic. By the time they arrived, Miriam had collected herself, but Ellis had grown more distraught. Sam dropped them off at the emergency-room entrance, then went to park the car. He found a spot nearby and rushed into the hospital just as a nurse approached the Hodges.
“She’s critical. They’re still working on her. We don’t know anything yet.”
“We want to see her,” Ellis demanded.
“Sir, right now your presence would be a distraction. Let’s let the doctors do their job. Just as soon as it’s possible, we’ll let you in.”
“Tell her we love her,” Ellis said, his voice catching.
Sam steered them toward a group of empty chairs in the waiting room. “Let’s sit down and pray,” he said.
Sam Gardner had never been a proponent of public prayer, but that all changed as he sat beside Miriam and Ellis, clutching their hands. “Dear Lord, please be with Amanda. Guide the doctors and guard her life. Be with her and be with Miriam and Ellis, that they might know Your healing peace.” He grew quiet, still holding their hands, praying a prayer that went beyond words.
There was a stir of motion near the door and they glanced up to see Amanda’s parents, Ralph and Sandy, bustle into the room, their faces creased with worry.
“Where is she?” Ralph cried out. “Where’s our girl? Frank called and told us she was here.”
Miriam rose and went to them, taking their hands. “She’s being worked on. They won’t let us see her just yet.”
She directed them to a set of chairs away from Ellis. No sense waving a red flag right in front of him. Sam walked over and sat with them for a few moments, consoling them.
Across the room, a mother and her daughter were airing their discord on national television as an audience cheered them on. What a sick world this can be, Sam thought glumly. He went over to the television and poked the power button off. They thumbed through the worn magazines for the next several hours, reading the same lines over and over, distracted with worry, before the emergency-room door opened with a bang and a doctor walked into the waiting room. “Hodge,” he called out.
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