The food was always wonderful at those church gatherings: homemade angel food cakes, maple-cured ham and butter beans, oniony hush puppies, fried chicken and sour cream biscuits the size of compact discs. During the time between Mom’s second and third husbands, they struggled for money, but they had fun. Back then, Mom sometimes harmonized along with them on songs, though never in public.
“You babies will be the stars,” she’d tell them. “My time has passed.”
Rett followed her grandma to the third pew on the right and slid in next to her. She liked churches with permanent pews. They felt real, not like you were sitting at a school assembly like so many modern churches felt like now. She pulled out one of the hymnals and was humming the song on page one, “How Great Thou Art,” when a familiar voice called out her name.
“Rett!” Rocky said.
Her head came up, her bottom lip dropping open in surprise. “Uh, hi.”
“How wonderful to see you and your abuela on this fine winter morning.” He bent over and gave Love a hug, holding out his free hand to Rett.
“Yeah, it’s cool,” she said, shaking his hand. “I mean, to see you again.”
She was surprised, though maybe she shouldn’t have been. He’d given her an old church program, and she remembered sticking it in her backpack without a glance. If she had looked at the name of the church, she would have recognized it. But the church sign outside said the pastor’s name was Roberto Sanchez, and he’d introduced himself as Rocky. It was kinda spooky when you thought about it, the coincidence of this being her grandma Love’s church. There ain’t no kind of coincidences on God’s earth, Brother Dwaine would have told her. It’s Divine Providence. Maybe he was right.
“Hope you’re able to visit us here in Morro Bay a little while,” he said, then moved on to greet some old ladies behind them. She hoped that since he didn’t make a big deal about meeting her before, he wouldn’t make some kind of announcement from the pulpit about her visiting her grandma.
He didn’t, so she settled into the pew, thinking she’d just let her mind drift away while waiting for the service to end. But she didn’t. First, the special music was pretty awesome with two old guys on a guitar and a fiddle, the old black lady rocking out on the organ and a cute guy in his twenties with spiky black hair who was the real musician. He played a beat-up old Gibson guitar and performed a few unexpected licks that made her lean closer to watch his fingers. He was good, far better than the other musicians, but he was cool about it. He gave them their time, respected their ability and never stopped smiling even when the old fiddler dude fumbled the song’s timing and the young guy had to really think fast to recapture his own time and place in the song. They played a combination of old-time hymns and a couple of praise songs that weren’t all boring and singsong.
She was glad that Rocky was of the “if you can’t say it in a half hour, it probably isn’t worth saying” group of ministers. It was a group she thought was way too small. She’d endured her fair share of preachers who made their point the first twenty minutes of their sermon and then spent the next hour and a half repeating it over and over with slightly different words, like “Dueling Banjos” set on perpetual repeat.
“God often doesn’t answer our prayers, at least right off,” Rocky stated, once he took the pulpit. “And that really annoys me sometimes.”
Rett found herself fascinated by his gravelly Johnny Cash voice, one that sounded like a real person who’d been through tough times. He probably sounded like rocks in a washing machine when he sang.
“Here’s some reasons why I think he might do that. We’ll be studying this subject in depth through January, but I’ll just lay out the facts for you right now, so you can ponder them. Remember, my e-mail is always open to discuss anything I talk about. Or come on down to the barbershop. My coffeepot is always on. Don’t be afraid to give me your input. We’re all learning together here.”
He looked down at his open Bible, where Rett could see the wire rim of a steno notebook. Rocky took notes for his sermons on the same kind of notebook she used to write down song lyrics and melodies.
“Here’s what I came up with. One: We don’t always understand all the circumstances about a situation, so what we’re asking for might mess up something else in God’s long-term eternal plan for the world. Two: We don’t understand God’s higher spiritual purposes, so what we ask for is what will make us feel better. Three: We forget that others have free will and that our Lord won’t force someone to do something he or she doesn’t want to do. Four: We don’t understand that life on earth is not perfect, that Satan does have limited power here and can sometimes mess with our plans (and under four a—just so you don’t lose hope—remember it isn’t going to be that way forever). Five: We all go through hard times, and unanswered prayers would definitely qualify, but it makes us seek out God. That, ideally, should result in us having a closer relationship with him. And that is the ultimate goal of all prayer . . . a closer relationship with our Creator.”
As he went on to delve a little deeper into the first reason, Rett found her thoughts homing in on number three. Though she’d never admit it out loud to one single person on this earth, she’d continued to pray that the minute Dale saw her, he would realize that she was the one he truly loved. And, deeper inside, she sort of hoped this baby would just disappear. She’d never thought the word miscarriage, not wanting to go that far. And she certainly didn’t pray for it, though if she was being honest, wasn’t hoping for a baby to disappear kind of the same thing? She didn’t want to wrap her mind around that, because that would make her the most horrible, evil person alive. This baby, this physical combination of Dale and Patsy’s DNA, didn’t actually seem real to her yet. Despite everything, all Rett could think about was the feel of Dale’s calloused fingertips on her cheeks, the sweet way her stomach felt when he kissed her.
Before she realized it, Rocky’s sermon was over, and the congregation was standing. Where had her brain gone to? Sometimes it freaked her out how she could lose time like that, be in this solitary world of her thoughts and look up and find that minutes and hours had passed, leaving only the echo of what had happened around her while she was gone, like the reverberating sound of a train seconds after it was out of sight.
She sang the last song by heart—“Blessed Assurance.” She was surprised that Rocky closed with such a traditional hymn. His final prayer surprised her even more, because he prayed first in Spanish, then in English.
“El Señor, nosotros les damos gracias para sus bendiciones, le paticionamos para nuestras necesidades, anoramos su guía y nosotros le honoramos su majestad. Usted, nuestro redentor, nuestra piedra, nuestro padre eterno, nuestra esperanza y nuestra salvacion. Nos ofrecemos a usted esta semana y oramos que usted nos ayude a servir a sus personas y usted. En el nombre del santeo hijo, amen.
“Oh, Lord, we thank you for your blessings, we petition you for our needs, we yearn for your guidance and honor you for your majesty. You are our redeemer, our rock, our everlasting father, our hope and our salvation. We offer ourselves to you this week and pray that you help us to serve your people and you. In your son, Jesus’s holy name, amen.”
The Spanish sounded cool. El Señor? She knew from the few Spanish classes she was forced to take in high school that el meant “the” and señor was “mister.” The Mister? That was so like Mister God that it freaked her out. She thought she was the only person who called him that.
After the service, as they stood in line to shake Rocky’s hand, Love introduced her to so many people that Rett’s smiling face started to hurt. She tried to be nice, not wanting to ruin this moment for her grandma, but after the tenth, “Why, you don’t look at all like Love,” she was ready to haul butt for home.
When they finally made it to the front of the line, she saw that Magnolia, the lady who owned the Buttercream, stood at Rocky’s side. She’d forgotten that she was Rocky’s wife. Why hadn’t she been in the service? Maybe she had been sitting in
back. Magnolia hugged Love enthusiastically.
“I got roped into nursery duty today,” Magnolia said. “We had three babies and five toddlers. Thank the good Lord I took my Flintstone vitamins this morning.”
“We missed your voice,” Love said, glancing over at Rett. “Magnolia was a professional singer for years. Her voice would knock your boots off.”
Rett nodded, not knowing how to answer.
“Oh, that was a million and a half years ago,” Magnolia said, giving Rett a quick up-and-down look. “Rett doesn’t want to hear about my days as a lounge singer.”
You got that one right, Rett thought, giving Magnolia a small smile.
“We’re heading out to the ranch after church to help August and Polly decorate their tree,” Love said.
“We’re heading out there ourselves after lunch. We’re meeting Father Mark at Liddie’s in San Celina. A bunch of churches are coordinating Christmas dinner at the homeless shelter this year, trying to maximize our contributions.”
“Put me down for a two-hour shift,” Love said. “More if you need slots filled.”
When they started to discuss the details of the holiday meal, Rett wandered away and sat on the small brick fence that surrounded the church sign. She could see Morro Rock from her perch. It glistened in the bright noon sunlight, looking like someone had sprayed it with carbonated water. She wondered what the rock looked like close up. Was it made of that shiny black rock—what was it called—obsidian? She’d seen an obsidian penholder once on the desk of a church pastor in Louisiana. He’d said it came from lava.
“It’s cool you came to our church,” a guy’s voice said, interrupting Rett’s contemplation of Morro Rock. “Was it okay for you?”
She looked up into the smiling face of the guy in the band who played the awesome guitar licks. He looked younger up close than he did from the front of the church, maybe nineteen or twenty at the most. He was tanned the color of almonds and had hazel eyes with gold in the center.
“I’m Zane,” he said, holding out his hand. “Zane Gray.”
“Oh, man, I’m so sorry,” she said, standing up and laughing as she shook his hand.
“Yeah,” he said, laughing with her. “My dad’s favorite book was Riders of the Purple Sage. Obviously.”
“It could have been worse. He could have named you Pearl.”
He moved in front of her to shade her face from the sun. “Wow, you know your obscure Zane Grey facts.”
She twisted a strand of her hair. “Who would name their son Pearl?”
He laughed again. “So, who are you, anyway?”
“Rett Johnson. I’m Love Johnson’s granddaughter.”
He nodded. “She’s awesome. Her cakes are wicked good.” A grin, one that caused his greenish eyes to turn to slits, stretched across his face. “She was my Sunday school teacher when I was fourteen. She always made each of us our favorite cake for our birthday. Mine was banana with caramel frosting. Nice to meet you, Rett. Is that, like, in Butler?”
Even though she’d heard that a million times, he was nice, so she decided to make him feel better about his name by telling him her real name. “I like to be called Rett, but my full name is Loretta Lynn Johnson.”
He threw back his head and laughed. Rett stared at his tanned throat, intrigued. She wondered if he sang and what his voice sounded like.
“Sorry back at you,” he said. “What was your parents’ deal?”
“Mom was a wannabe country singer,” she said.
“Dad sold insurance, but he wanted to be a writer,” Zane said, nodding. “He died when I was six. My mom and my great-aunt Zoey are veterinarians over in Paso. That’s what we call Paso Robles here.”
“Got it. That’s kinda cool, I mean, your mom and great-aunt both being vets.”
He stuck his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans. “I suppose, except it stops with me. I want to be a musician, which, according to my mom, is breaking her heart.”
“Ready to go, Rett?” Love called over to her.
“Hey, see you around,” he said.
“Sure,” she replied.
Love and Rett swung by the house to pick up Ace, who was waiting eagerly by the kitchen door.
“Ace loves his excursions to the ranch,” Love said, helping him into the backseat of her car, where she hooked him into a special padded dog car seat built high enough for him to see out the window. “He’s like a weekend gentleman rancher. He pretends he knows what to do with a herd of cattle.”
“Wow, he’s not spoiled or anything,” Rett said, turning around in the passenger seat to scratch him under his white chin. He licked her nose, causing her to giggle.
“Oh, no, not a bit,” Love said.
On the drive to the ranch, Love fretted out loud about Polly and August living there alone. “Polly’s in denial, I think,” she said, as they turned into the long driveway. “I guess I can understand. Sometimes it’s hard to see what’s right in front of our face, especially if it’s something we don’t want to see.”
Polly sat on the porch waiting for them, a red mixing bowl in her lap. The minute Ace hit the ground, he darted around the house.
“Where’s he going?” Rett asked.
“To find Ring. They’re old buddies,” Love said.
“You like snap peas?” Polly asked Rett when she walked up to the porch.
Rett hesitated a moment, then said, “Not really, ma’am.”
Polly smiled at her. “No matter. We have lots of other things for dinner. I’m assuming you do like roast chicken and mashed potatoes?”
Rett nodded and smiled back. “But I really like desserts.”
“Got plenty of those.” Polly stood up and opened the screen door. “Help me set the table. Love, August is in the barn with Mel. Tell ’em that dinner will be served in ten minutes.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Love said, winking at Rett, though Rett wasn’t sure why.
Rett liked helping Polly set the table with the flowery, mismatched dishes and worn silverware. Since Polly missed church that morning, she asked Rett to tell her about Rocky’s sermon. Once she starting talking, Rett realized that she’d absorbed more than she realized. She gave her great-grandma the highlights, while they moved platters and bowls of food to the table: pepper-scented roast chicken, buttermilk mashed potatoes, snap peas, corn, baking powder biscuits and three kinds of pickles in a crystal condiment dish.
“He talked about unanswered prayers and how sometimes what we pray for isn’t what God wants for us,” Rett said, “or for other people, so that’s why he doesn’t answer.” She stuck a small sour pickle in her mouth. It made Rett’s lips purse, and Polly laughed. “Well, Rocky says he does answer, but it’s not always what we want to hear. And some stuff about how people have free will, so even if we pray for changes in their life, they, like, have to allow the changes to happen.”
“How well I know that,” Polly said, setting a bowl of black olives next to the pickles. She wiped her hands down her blue and white checked apron.
“So, then, why bother praying?” Rett heard herself ask, then wished she’d kept quiet. The last thing she felt like doing right now was getting into some kind of theological argument.
Polly put both hands on her hips, and Rett thought, Oh, no, here it comes. But her great-grandma surprised her.
“Well, I don’t really know, Rett,” she said. “I always figured that God told us to pray, and if I don’t always see what good it does, that doesn’t change the fact that he told us to do it. It’s like being the rancher as compared to the ranch hand. When you’re the rancher, you see the whole picture of what you know the ranch needs to prosper. So you tell the hands, you work on this fence, you clear out this bunch of brush, you doctor the cattle. The hands don’t know everything that’s going on, and if they just up and said, I think I’d rather clean tack today or rebuild the corral, they’re messing with the overall plan that you have for the ranch.”
Rett set out forks and knives, contem
plating what Polly said. “What if the rancher sees things wrong? What if he—”
“Or she,” Polly said, chuckling.
Rett smiled. “Okay, or she, totally has things all screwed up and is doing things wrong. What do you do then?”
Polly wiped her hands on her apron and said, “If that’s the case, maybe you shouldn’t be working for a rancher you don’t trust.”
At that moment, Love, August and Mel came into the house, stomping their feet and laughing. Ace darted into the kitchen, immediately lay down in front of the refrigerator and barked. Ring bounded in seconds later and joined Ace.
“They want cheese,” Polly explained, opening the door and reaching into a drawer. “It’s our ritual.” She broke off two small pieces of cheddar cheese and fed one to each dog.
In a flurry of talk and removing jackets, everyone eventually found places around the table. After a quick prayer of thanks, they started eating, with Ace and Ring moving from one person to another, noses upturned in hope.
“We’ll decorate the tree after lunch,” Polly said. “I have all the ornaments out.” She turned to Rett. “You’ll be with us for Christmas, won’t you?”
Everyone turned to stare at her, waiting for her answer. “Uh, I don’t know yet. I . . . maybe I’ll go back to . . .”
She stopped, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to let Polly think that she was for sure going to stay here. She had absolutely no intention of going back to Tennessee. She just couldn’t look Patsy in the face right now. But staying here felt weird. To be honest, she just wished that she could skip Christmas this year. It was too full of emotional minefields. She stared down into her pile of mashed potatoes, watching the pat of butter melt into a murky yellow pond.
“Well, you know, I think I’m going to have to call the police,” August said, biting off a large chunk of biscuit. “Pretty darn soon.”
Everyone turned their faces from Rett to August. She exhaled in relief.
He looked over at Mel, then at Love, his face serious; his blue eyes seemed as clear and still as a mountain lake.
Love Mercy Page 21
