Perhaps, however, God had decided that it was time for me to pay the price for all my previous selfish and complacent solitude, and wanted to show me that living meant involvement with life. Perhaps Angel was truly an angel he had sent to knock me off my comfortable fence and into the fray of pain and joy and sorrow and hope and despair that I was trying to pretend did not exist in lives around me.
For it was Angel who would bring Retha Herndon into my life too. With all of the other events that followed.
**
Praying fast and hard in a whisper that wouldn’t disturb her eighteen-month-old son in the blanket she’d wrapped around him, Retha strapped him into the passenger-side seat, leaving only his dry, unnaturally white face exposed. She knew Billy Lee should be in the backseat, but up front was where she could keep a close eye on his labored breathing. She was so scared he might die that she didn’t know what to do if his breathing finally stopped except panic more.
Retha began her prayer, as the dappled shadows of the trees danced across the hood of her slow-moving truck, by asking Jesus to find a way to keep Elder Mason at his town appointment longer than usual, and to let Junior, who was out in his swamp boat fellowshiping with two friends, hook some bass early so they wouldn’t get bored and come home in the next couple hours. Retha figured the fishing part wouldn’t be hard for Jesus to manage; after all, hadn’t he told Peter to throw his net over the other side of the boat and then filled it with fish, when Peter thought one more throw would be a waste of time? And that was hardly a miracle compared to another time when Jesus needed money fast and didn’t have to look farther than the next fish, which had a coin in its mouth. In other words, Retha told herself, of anybody, Jesus knew fish.
Retha’s plea for Jesus to keep Junior in the bass boat most of the day only took to the end of the drive, where the truck broke out of an archway of trees into sunshine that bounced harshly off all the industrial sheeting of the walls of the other mobile homes scattered between Retha and the church at the front of the compound. But in that short distance to the compound’s main road, Retha realized that the few lessons in driving that Junior had given her during their brief courtship were nearly inadequate for the journey ahead, especially as she intended to keep praying.
Junior never disagreed when Shepherd Isaiah or Elder Mason discussed that part in Ephesians six where wives are supposed to obey their husbands. Elder Mason insisted that meant Junior’s position was unquestioned head of the household, and it was Retha’s duty to stay at home and pop children. “Pop children” was Elder Mason’s expression, not hers; Retha knew from ten hours of labor with Billy Lee that it was a lot more difficult than a quick pop. Although as husband Junior was supposed to be head of the household, Elder Mason made all the decisions, including the mandate that Retha ought not leave the compound unless accompanied by Junior. Which meant that Retha needed to ask Jesus to forgive her for stealing the spare key and for driving the truck when it was against her husband’s will and against Elder Mason’s will and definitely against Shepherd Isaiah’s will. On top of this request for forgiveness, Retha also needed to ask Jesus to look over her and little Billy Lee on the twenty miles ahead into Charleston, especially on the highway and when they got to town where traffic was bad.
Desperately as she needed to pray, she found it difficult to drive at the same time. She feared Jesus might get mad at her if she didn’t keep her eyes closed when she prayed, and if he was mad, maybe he wouldn’t give her any help at all.
Once on the road that wound through the extensive acreage of the compound, she tried alternating between watching the truck’s uncertain progress and shutting her eyes briefly, praying in quick bursts while her eyes were closed, but that had nearly put her off the road into one of the other mobile homes, which would have been a disaster. Imagine what people would say, and how angry Elder Mason would be at that, because as one of the Chosen, he was supposed to be nearly as perfect as Shepherd Isaiah. So halfway to the compound gates at the end of the road, Retha began squinting hard, with her eyes almost closed, trying to concentrate on driving and praying at the same time. But that reminded her too much of the times in church when she’d peeked during the half-hour prayers that nearly suffocated her and had been whipped later for her sin, getting extra licks for the audacity to ask her own daddy how he could have known she was peeking when his eyes were supposed to be closed too. Squinting felt so much like the sin of peeking in church that Retha gave up on it by the time she reached the parking lot of the church. Retha also decided that since she hadn’t been able to fool her daddy, it only followed she had no chance at all of fooling Jesus, since both her daddy and Shepherd Isaiah insisted that Jesus was there to watch every sin.
Then came the compound gate. She knew that the remote opener on Junior’s sun visor was operational, but during the eternity it took for the gate to swing open, she worried that someone from the church would run out and ask questions. So Retha prayed the entire time she waited, then eased out onto the main gravel road that led away from the church.
At twenty-five miles an hour, with the tires of the Chevrolet truck throwing rocks into the low ditch beside the flat, straight road and with dust coming up through the leaky floorboards, choking out any smell of the heavy, dark swamp water nearby, Retha finally settled on closing just one eye, asking Jesus to understand and forgive her if she was praying wrong, and explaining to him how she didn’t have time to pull over to pray properly every mile or two.
With that problem resolved—she hoped—Retha got on to her next prayers.
She asked Jesus to keep the road clear of police since not only didn’t she have a driver’s license, but she’d covered the truck’s license plate with red mud she’d made by watering a small patch of the flower bed and mixing it with her bare hands. She didn’t want the truck identified by anyone at the hospital. If she made it that far.
Lastly, Retha began to pray that for what she was attempting to do, Jesus wouldn’t send little Billy Lee to hell if he died.
That’s when Shepherd Isaiah passed her in his large, new black Cadillac Escalade sport utility vehicle. The wide tires sprayed stones into her windshield, and instinctively she stopped. He fishtailed farther up the road, slowing until he could spin his rear tires hard and swing the Escalade around to face her truck.
Then slowly, he drove toward her.
When he was close enough for his eyes to meet hers through his bug-splashed windshield, Retha discovered the driver was not Shepherd Isaiah but his brother, Elder Jeremiah Sullivan. Same dark hair as Shepherd Isaiah. Same dark beard. Same square face. But six years younger, six inches taller, and one hundred pounds heavier. At nearly thirty years old, a man in his physical prime. A man who worshiped Shepherd Isaiah, and as his bodyguard and one of the Chosen, a man who was prepared to die for him.
Elder Jeremiah put a massive arm out the open driver’s window and pointed her back toward the compound.
Chapter 4
I had recently learned many truths about my own boyhood, and it had been a journey of sorrow, sweetened by a measure of joy in discovering my mother was not, as I’d been long led to believe, a tramp and runaway thief who had abandoned her only son.
Because of her, I had been born into the Barrett family with their disapproval. But my mother’s marriage to a Barrett had been tragically cut short when David Barrett died in military action just months before my birth. My mother had been pregnant when David had already been in service far too long to allow a claim that he might truly be my father. While Charleston’s high society is riddled with such scandals, my mother’s real sin—in their eyes—was the fact that she, like Angel, had been tainted by a birthplace too far north of Broad Street.
Broad runs east and west across the lower part of Charleston’s peninsula, a clear line of division in societal terms. Each time I cross Broad, I think of Hadrian’s Wall in northern Britain—still impressive after nearly two thousand years of decay—built early in the first millennium by the Ro
mans not only to repel the barbarians, but also to remind them constantly that the Romans ruled the southern provinces. Because Broad Street is not lined with stones piled ten feet thick and twenty feet high by the Romans, the aristocracy of Charleston relies instead on the price of their real estate to keep out the barbarians. Given the choice, however, I’m certain the aristocrats would prefer the protection of the Roman wall and sentries armed with shield and spear, for there is nothing to stop tourists and lesser Charlestonians from the irritating habit of freely entering the neighborhoods to gawk at their mansions.
King Street is the one-way arrow that points the invading tourists into the hallowed southern end of Charleston’s peninsula. Below Broad Street, King is appropriately quiet, adorned with the mansions and other historically preserved homes. North of Broad the first portion of King, lined with antique shops, serves as a buffer zone between wealth and poverty. The patches of cobblestone and uneven sidewalks serve notice that it is not just another commercial strip for the type of tourist content to stand in line for hours at Disney World. As an added deterrent, the shops farther up King are suitably upscale, a common ground for the aristocracy and upper-class tourists. Yet barely a mile or so to the north, especially on the other side of Highway 17 toward the area where Angel lived, King widens and degenerates so badly that tattoos and cheap beer are actually available in various neon-signed establishments.
Because the pureness of my link to the aristocracy was contaminated by my mother’s bloodline, I often felt the subtle disapproval of those around me as I grew up south of Broad. Because of it, my suspicion of them was and is habitually returned.
Much as I feel a stranger among those south of Broad, I have a weakness for the antique shops on King just north of Broad. My mother is to blame. Here, when I was a young boy, she would walk with me from antique shop to antique shop where we played a game, pretending we had enough wealth to purchase various objects of beauty but declined out of decency for those who could not afford a badly varnished writing desk worth as much as a new automobile. During those all too brief years of an idyllic childhood, my mother often told me that she enjoyed being among antiques because they brought to life the history of Charleston that she loved with great passion. Through those events that had led me to the truth about her, I now wonder if part of that fascination resulted because of her sad wish to live among the other Barretts without facing the subtle scorn constantly directed at her.
Either way, walking along that ancient and narrow portion of King, past the various antique shops toward small restaurants and boutiques, always brings me a sense of peace, for it gives back my mother and her scent and her smile and the warmth of her hand on mine. In my memories, it never rains on the cobblestones of King Street.
My two friends own one of the shops here. Spinster twins and institutions in Charleston, they have a keen sense of the happenings of the elite. Gossip provides them with the knowledge of which blue bloods are anxious to pay off loans or taxes by dumping exquisite furniture at bargain prices; it’s often remarked that their appearance in one of the mansions south
of Broad means the repossession crews or moving vans will be seen soon after.
Glennifer and Elaine Beloise had been proprietors long before my mother and I made our treks and had always been kind and attentive when we visited and browsed among their antiques. They weren’t concerned about mother’s background, respecting her passion and knowledge of antiques. Often they invited us to remain with them for tea, something I know had given my mother great pleasure. Early upon my return to Charleston after my years of exile, I had visited them again, asking for help in my search for the truth about my mother and events of my childhood. Despite all the time that had passed, they recognized me immediately and despite the events that had driven me away, extended their previous kindness and respect.
Now, by learning what I could about Angel and the antique painting stolen decades earlier from Agnes Larrabee, I hoped to show my gratitude to them for what I had learned about my mother and for the small kindnesses that had meant so much to her during my childhood years.
**
A bell tinkled as I entered the shop just past two o’clock on that same Saturday.
Other antique dealers on King specialized in Civil War artifacts or jewelry or art or knickknacks; Glennifer and Elaine were the experts on furniture. They cared little about the presentation of their desks and chairs and mirrors. Their understanding of value was so acute, and their prices so high, that only those with the knowledge and income to appreciate these antiques became their clients. Pricing the furniture with handwritten white tags and displaying it haphazardly would not deter those clients. On the other hand, the crammed discount warehouse feel of the shop effectively turned back bored window-shopping tourists who would otherwise simply waste time with foolish questions.
As usual, I was alone among all the antiques as I made my way past full-length mirrors and fine straight-backed chairs. Glennifer and Elaine preferred to spend their time in the back office, sharing a large desk always piled with papers and magazines. Whenever the bell tinkled, they sent out Willy, a tiny and effeminate man who habitually clutched a handkerchief to his nose, sniffing the cologne he soaked it in.
Willy emerged from the back in his dark pants, vest, and bow tie, rolled his eyes upon seeing it was no one more important than I, pointed past himself to the back of the shop, and ran his hands over his slicked-back hair to ensure it was still immaculately in place.
Unlike Willy, Glennifer and Elaine smiled upon my arrival. They wore their hair up in gray piles, their faces were collapsed by age, their cheeks and jowls wrinkled like fine netting. But their smiles brought light to their dark eyes. As always, each wore a black dress, neck to toe. The only way I could distinguish one from the other was by their voices. Glennifer secretly smoked, and her throat rasped because of it.
“Nicholas!” each exclaimed.
I proceeded forward, and as was my custom, leaned over and kissed each extended left hand, sad that age had made their bones so delicate, their skin as light as tracing paper. As was their custom, each pretended great delight at my exaggerated display of Southern charm.
“Tea?” Glennifer offered, the harshness of her raspy voice countered by the softness of her Southern drawl.
“Only if it’s guest tea,” I said. “I’m not interested in what you serve yourselves when you think no one will notice.”
“Laney!” Glennifer gasped to Elaine, hand at her throat.
I knew them well enough to understand this was deliberate melodrama, a mockery of Southern manners and something they enjoyed using occasionally as a way to amuse me. “He can’t possibly know.”
I hid my smile and pointed at a nearby antique wardrobe. “Know that you line the bottom of that with a towel to soak up drippings from the used tea bags you clip to a string inside to dry for future use?”
“Glenny!” Elaine gasped theatrically in return, drawing from me the smile. “He does know!”
She frowned slightly. “Nicholas, how do you know?”
“Blame Willy,” I said. Willy hadn’t told me, but I faced the disdain of his rolled eyeballs each time I entered the antique shop, and I didn’t mind the chance to seek petty revenge.
“Oh, that Willy,” Glennifer said. “Tomorrow, I swear. His last day.”
“You’ll never be rid of me,” his voice drifted in from the front. “Certainly you’ve learned by now that a vent lets me hear everything you say back there. I know too many secrets about you. And no, I didn’t tell your friend Nicky about the tea bags. But I will tell him about the chewing tobacco.”
“Chewing tobacco?” I asked.
Glennifer turned to me, apparently unwilling to discuss the vent or the chewing tobacco. “I believe we were discussing tea. From a new tea bag. Happy?”
In reply, I pulled out a gold Rolex watch and dropped it on their desk.
“Not only happy,” I said, “but rich. Look at what that kid Angel gave
me for helping her out today in the emergency room at St. George’s.”
**
It had taken less than a minute for another olive-uniformed security guard to appear after Angel had taken her hostage on the floor. Unlike John Nesbitt, this one had the body of a serious, steroid-injected weight lifter. His face reflected his steroid use, mountainous with purple pimples. The buzz cut of his dyed-platinum hair hinted at aggression, and a large gold earring proved to the world that he did not need to conform
to its mundane rules.
Upon his strutting arrival, the guard’s first move was to scoop Maddie off the desk of the admitting nurse.
Everyone else in the waiting room had formed an outer ring around the fallen John Nesbitt. I slipped between people to get to the center.
Angel stared up at me from the floor. With John Nesbitt’s neck trapped between her thighs, his head looked like a watermelon in her lap. Against his already flushed face, a darker red splotch grew from the pressure of the pen jammed into the skin beneath his eye.
I spoke to Angel. “I think I can help. You want everyone out of here so we can talk?”
She nodded.
I turned to the security guard holding Maddie. “Why don’t you give me the little girl and clear everyone else out of here?”
“I’ve got this under control. As soon as she lets go of our man, she gets her baby sister back.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “She’s got him hostage, so you’ve got her sister hostage.”
“We do what it takes to protect our own.” He said it proudly, as if everyone knew security guards had their own soldier’s code.
I stepped close. “Give me the baby. Clear the room.”
Buzz-cut smirked. “Look, dude, you don’t understand who you’re dealing with. You do what we say.”
Crown of Thorns (Nick Barrett Charleston series) Page 3
