by Chris Fabry
“This may be my last chance to talk face-to-face for a while,” Miriam said. “Millstone has drawn a line and I think I’m on the other side of it.”
“It’s moments like this that make a God-fearing woman want to learn a few good curse words.”
“Elsie, what can you tell me about Dr. Crenshaw? What did he know about Treha’s past?”
Elsie looked out the window. “He was torn up about something concerning her. Regrets. I never figured it out, but I did help him find forgiveness. Physically Jim Crenshaw was a mess. He’d abused his body for decades. But spiritually he was worse. He was adrift.”
“Peace in the Valley.” That was the song she had heard on the radio earlier. How had she remembered? Something about sorrow and sadness and trouble leaving because there will be peace in the valley.
“What regrets?”
“He said he had done things as a doctor he wasn’t proud of and wanted forgiveness. I told him he could have that.”
“And you think this had something to do with Treha?”
“This is the part . . . Jim said he was the reason Treha came to work here. He found her.”
“That can’t be. As I recall, she answered an advertisement. She had printed it and carried it with her when she showed up on our doorstep.”
“Do you know how she found it?”
“I assumed it was online or Buck put it on a board at a grocery.”
“Jim sent that to her. He suggested she apply.”
“But how would he have known her? Or where she lived?”
“I never asked.”
Miriam’s mind spun. “Elsie, did he keep a file on Treha? Things written down that might help?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“I thought he might have mentioned it. Did he ever talk about a man named Davidson?”
The old woman shook her head, making the skin under her neck jiggle. “I think he didn’t share more because he was protecting somebody.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Maybe himself. Maybe me. Maybe he was just so ashamed of what he did that he didn’t want me to think less of him. I told him there was nothing he could do that would keep God from loving him. And if he was good enough for God, he was good enough for me. But that didn’t help.”
Elsie reached for the quilt behind her and pulled on a yellow strand that had gone rogue. “This was given to me by the ladies’ missionary society at my church. For years we would make care baskets for missionaries in Africa, India, Burma—they call it something else now.” She pointed a crooked finger at a panel. “Each of these little squares has a verse reference. Like this one here. Isaiah 40:8. ‘The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God endures forever.’”
“Do you know all of these by heart?”
“When the mind is sharp, I can get pretty close. Here’s Psalm 119:11.” She closed her eyes and lifted her right hand like some conductor ready to lead a biblical orchestra. “‘I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you.’ That one is a comfort, but the truth is all the hiding in the world doesn’t keep you from sin; it just lets you know it’s there.”
Now Miriam understood the straight and curved lines on the patchwork that had made no sense when she saw them upside down. Like her life. And Treha’s. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
“No, it’s full of flaws. Missed stitches and crooked squares fashioned by arthritic hands. That’s what makes it priceless to me. It’s more meaningful because every time I look, I see those ladies working and talking and laughing and praying. We solved a lot of the world’s problems in those sewing circles. The beauty is in the flaws. I tried to tell Jim that.”
“He wouldn’t listen?”
“He listened and I think he understood.” Elsie touched a few more panels like she was caressing the face of a friend. “I don’t know everything Jim did, but I saw a tortured soul set free.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was cool to my faith at first. Stayed away for a while, didn’t want to hear it. I can take rejection as long as you’re really rejecting the message and not my bad breath or the way I’m presenting it. As time went on and we built trust, he came around and wanted to know what gave me hope.”
She touched another panel. “‘Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have.’”
“Your recall is amazing.”
“That’s not the important part. The important part comes last. Give people the reason for the hope you have, ‘but do this with gentleness and respect.’” She punctuated each word with a finger on the quilt. “If only Millstone could follow that. And if Christians would wrap their truth like that, I expect we’d give the truth to more hungry people.”
“I appreciate what you’re saying. I believe, but I struggle with it.”
“Mmm-hmm. I’ve known since we met that you’re searching for more than retirement. You’re searching for something you can’t find anywhere but in here.” She pointed at Miriam’s chest.
Miriam stared at the quilt and the squares. In their imperfection they somehow seemed perfect, placed in the design by loving hands that cared about an old woman alone in a room with cheesy music and a faith so real she could taste it.
“What about Jim?” she said. “What happened?”
“We were sitting at the breakfast table. I remember as clear as you sitting right there. He wasn’t eating his grapefruit. His coffee was cold. Just staring off. I said, ‘Jim, you look like you’ve come to a decision.’
“‘I sure have,’ he says. And he gave me that smile of his and I knew what had happened.”
She pointed at another square on the quilt. On it was stitched Ezekiel 36:26. Elsie closed her eyes again. “‘I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.’ That’s what happened. We prayed together. We cried together. And God began to work in his heart to change things. To help him deal with his regrets.”
“That’s why he had hired Devin to come record him.”
“That’s right. And then he was gone. He was reading his Bible, soaking it in, asking more questions . . .”
Elsie yawned and Miriam stood. “I’ll leave you to get some beauty rest.”
“Too late for beauty, my dear. I’ll settle for sanity and continence.”
Miriam put a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Elsie. Hang in there with Millstone.”
Elsie clasped hands with her, and Miriam was surprised at the fierce grip. “You take care of that girl.”
Streams from Desert Gardens
outtake 1
Camera shaking, being positioned.
Shot of empty office, empty chair. Devin walks into shot and turns.
What’s that?
JONAH (OFF CAMERA): New lens. Sit down—I want to try it out.
Devin sits.
How much did that cost? And where’d you get the money?
VOC: You don’t need to know everything. Just talk.
About what?
VOC: I don’t care. Anything. Why we’re doing this.
Why? We’re doing this because we can’t not do it. That’s the best answer. We’re doing this because this is what we were made to do.
VOC: We were made to have a failing business?
We’re not failing. Don’t you see? Some of the biggest breakthroughs came when everybody thought something was a failure.
VOC: Give me one example.
I don’t know. The lightbulb. The coffeemaker. Are you done?
VOC: No, stay there.
Camera zooms and refocuses.
VOC: What makes a good documentary?
Well, it’s certainly not letting the director get in front of the camera. You’re supposed to stay out of the way. Be seen, not heard. A good documentary presents the illusion that you’re simply watching life. And the viewer is not really watching; they’re participating
in the process, discovering as the camera discovers. When you achieve that, you know you have something special.
VOC: Preach it.
A good film draws you in because it feels like life. That’s what we’re doing at Desert Gardens, showing real life.
VOC: Turn left a little. No, my left. There. This looks really good. So keep going. Why did you choose this place, these people?
My grandfather was here. I would come to see him and listen to the stories of my family. After the crash—
VOC: Say more about the crash. For our viewing audience.
My parents . . . You know this. My parents died in a plane crash. A private company plane. They weren’t rich or anything, just headed to a conference. Plane went down and I was alone. A pack of wolves took me in, though.
VOC: Is that why you do this? Connecting with other people?
I’ve never thought of it that way, but maybe. This kind of fills in some pieces for me. But it’s more than that. More than some psychological catharsis, if that’s what you’re saying.
VOC: Hey, I’m just testing out a new lens.
Will that work on a long shot?
VOC: That’s what it’s for.
CHAPTER 21
DEVIN SAT in his car counting bricks in the wall surrounding the massive home of Calvin Davidson. He hadn’t seen the old man yet and he was running out of gas because he had to keep the air conditioner running. It was about five degrees warmer here than in Tucson.
He had searched for the man’s phone number but it was unlisted. He had the address because Miriam Howard had given it to him. She had warmed to his idea of telling Treha’s story and suggested he try to find some information about Davidson, so that morning he’d gone all in and driven two hours and now here he was. Waiting.
Devin wasn’t sure how this man connected with Treha and Dr. Crenshaw, but it seemed important to Miriam. And that was enough for him. Because this idea about Treha was golden. So he had to get Miriam to trust him, give him access now that Desert Gardens was closed to him. This was a way to prove he was fully invested.
It was one of Devin’s strengths—tenacity. Or maybe foolishness.
When he’d first pulled up, he rang the bell and passed the time waiting by reading a paper taped to the front door. A lawn care company had left it and the date of service was the day before. Apparently Davidson’s slow-drip sprinklers were operating, though some plants in the xeriscape were in distress, and the company would need access to the control panel inside the garage—could the occupant please call to set up a service appointment? Davidson’s phone number was scribbled at the top of the bill and Devin programmed it into his phone.
He’d dialed as soon as he returned to the car but received no answer. He was hoping to hear Davidson’s voice, but a machine told him to leave a message. Devin had, though now he thought it might have been a mistake. He had hemmed and hawed at why he wanted to see the man.
A text came from Jonah: Any geezer activity?
Devin replied: Zilch. Saw a neighbor walking. Said he hadn’t seen Davidson in a week.
Detect any odors?
Somebody is barbecuing.
Do you like your Davidson medium or rare?
Not funny.
Hang tough.
Devin noticed the gate opening in his rearview and a UPS truck barreled through. He had followed a garbage truck into the subdivision, past the slow-moving gate, and wound to the Davidson property on at least two acres along a side street. Devin’s heart skipped a beat when the truck’s brake lights shone in front of him; then the truck moved to the next house, and the man in brown shorts with wraparound sunglasses and gelled hair knocked on the front door. A woman answered and signed for the package and life went on.
The truck gave Devin an idea. He drove back through the gate—getting out was a lot easier than getting in—and twenty minutes later he was back at the same spot where his car’s slight coolant leak had left a yellowish-green spot on the pavement. He parked and pulled out the book-size box and some tape he had bought at Office Depot. He didn’t want to make it too hard in case the man had arthritic fingers.
He opened the spiral notebook he kept with him and took three runs at the message. The first two tries felt too desperate. Phrases like please call and I need to talk to you covered the page. It sounded pathetic and he didn’t want that. He wanted to draw the old man in with a hook, make him yearn to know who had sent the box. He told himself this was okay, it was for a good cause, though he wasn’t sure.
Devin pushed the thoughts away and wrote, this time finding something mysterious and inviting.
Your house is being watched. Call this number. I can help.
He wrote his cell number beneath the words but didn’t sign the note. He folded the page twice and placed it in the box, writing Calvin Davidson on the front. The sun was fully up when he propped the box against the door and rang the bell. He retreated to the car and watched the front windows to see any movement of drapes or shutters. His view was partially blocked by mesquite trees whose brilliant-green branches had taken over.
An hour later, bored out of his mind, Devin was so hungry he could hear his stomach speaking another language. He checked his phone to find the nearest restaurant and looked once more at the box by the front door.
He was gone a few minutes and returned with two chicken sandwiches, waffle fries, and an iced tea. Devin shook his head when he saw the box was gone.
We have activity, he texted Jonah.
You dig him up in the backyard?
Not funny. Stay tuned.
He unwrapped the first sandwich and ate ravenously, the prospect of finally breaking through stirring his appetite. In the middle of the second sandwich, the phone rang. The number was restricted. He tried twice to unlock the cell but his greasy fingers slipped. On the third try he answered and glanced at the house as he tried to swallow and talk.
“Yes?”
Silence on the other end. A click-click—or maybe cluck-cluck. Like someone’s dentures. He decided to go for it.
“Mr. Davidson, thank you for calling.” Firm, confident. Exuding strength.
He had always believed you could tell much about a person by their voice. Not just word choice and demeanor, but also the actual vocal print. The human voice was unique to each person—like a fingerprint.
He knew next to nothing about the man on the other end, but when he heard the first words from Calvin Davidson’s mouth, Devin knew he had discovered gold.
“Are you with them?”
Four words. Crackling, like hot water poured over ice. Also deeply resonant, as if coming from some underground cavern. Davidson sounded like an actor Devin’s mother had loved. She would point him out in films when Devin was younger, and now the man was typecast as the grizzled, confused old man.
“Who are you? What do you want with me?”
“Mr. Davidson, don’t hang up. I’m a friend.”
“You are no friend of mine.”
What richness. Texture. And the syntax—not the colloquial you’re, but you are. Devin couldn’t wait to get a microphone on the man and watch the meters dance.
Careful not to sound needy. Let him hear poise.
“Your home is being watched.” Of course, Devin was the one watching. “I’d like to help you—”
“Surveillance. You tell me nothing I don’t already know. They come at night. When I try to sleep. They can sense me sleeping. Or maybe you’re one of them.”
“No, I’m not one of them.”
“They’ve planted listening devices in the ceiling. My phone. They’re engineering plants now, modifying them genetically to listen in on conversations.”
Devin waited, took a breath. “Sir, my name is Devin Hillis. I’m not your enemy.”
“And who are you with, Devin Hillis?” Davidson spat his name as if it were a curse.
“I’m not with anyone. I mean, I own a company called Life Reviews. We produce video presentations, make films—documentaries
.”
“Documentaries. Do you think people care about the truth these days? We can’t discern the truth from the lies being told us.”
“Sir, a friend suggested I contact you. Her name is Miriam Howard.”
“I’ve never heard of her.”
“She runs a retirement home—at least she did until a couple of days ago.”
“You’re not taking me there. I won’t go. I know that’s why they’re listening, so they can trap me. So they can have me committed, put a white jacket on me.”
“That’s not why I’m calling. One of her residents knew you. He wrote you a letter and she wanted you to have it.”
Silence on the other end except for the wheezing rasp, as if he were exerting himself. Devin looked at the front windows of the house but there was no movement.
“You’re with the government, are you not?”
“What?”
“Or are you selling something?”
His voice was a bubbling cauldron of contempt. Wonderful. At least there was passion.
“I’m not selling anything. I’m here to help.”
“So you are from the government. Here to help yourself.”
The call cut off and Devin cursed. He’d felt he was making a connection with the man; then the line went dead. He redialed.
A sharp tap against the window.
Devin glanced over to see the barrel of a handgun. Square and ancient. Behind it, a wrinkled hand gripping the revolver. A face full of wrinkles and derision.
Poise suddenly left Devin, along with composure and control. The gun jerked toward the ground twice, and Devin interpreted this correctly and rolled his window down. He noticed the cordless phone in the man’s other hand.
Calvin Davidson wore a blue cardigan sweater and plaid pants. They looked thin, like pajamas. His face was neatly shaved up to the thin mustache, which reminded Devin of his grandfather’s, though Davidson had missed a patch under his chin and the skin around it was blotchy and red as if he had been scratching with fingernails that were just a little too long for a person with all his sanity. His eyelids were puffy, like wrinkled cotton balls.
