“Of course. Once you start going out with somebody, you don’t have to go to all that trouble. You just—you know—make plans to hang out.”
“Mmm. Interesting.”
“Come on, Daddy, hurry and unlock the door! I want to see Samantha!” urged Mallory.
“You bet, honey—and I expect she wants to see you, too.”
“Unless the lady next door got her,” teased Jamie, and both his parents hushed him firmly. “Well, she’s weird enough,” he insisted.
* * *
Samantha wound around their legs, purring and making little throaty trills of welcome as they carried in their luggage. Mallory scooped her up and kissed her, assuring her pet that she’d missed her terribly and worried about her. The bishop sent Trish upstairs to lie down while he and the children cleaned out the car and started a load of laundry. Once the debris had been cleared, he sat down at his desk in the corner of the dining room and retrieved the messages that had been left there for him. His cell number had been printed in the ward directory, but many members of the ward still preferred to call him at home or work. It had been three days since he had checked his home phone messages, and there were several waiting for him. Two were from Ralph Jernigan, who didn’t trust cell phones.
“Bishop,” came his guarded tones on the first message, “got something to tell you. Feel you should know. Can’t speak of it on these lines, of course, but if you’ll contact me ASAP, we can get together. Thanks.”
The bishop sighed and punched the erase button, then listened to the second one. “Bishop, Brother Wright says you’re out of town. Sure hope you’re taking all precautions. The world isn’t safe to travel in as it once was, sorry to say. Please see me soon as possible when you return. I have—information.” The bishop could practically hear the capital “I” on “information.” What now? He wondered. He would have to see Ralph right away, if only to soothe the man’s frayed nerves.
The third message was from Ida Lou Reams, the ward’s tireless Relief Society president. “Hey there, Bishop, sorry to trouble you—can you hear me? I declare, I hate these answering things—half the time they hang up on me before I get my piece said! Anyhow, I wanted you to know that Sister Hildy has went into the hospital for some tests. They think maybe it’s her gall bladder, she’s been in quite some pain, but I don’t know yet. I’m going back to see her tonight. Oh, and she’s here in Fairhaven, not down to Birmingham. Um—this is Thursday, at about five-fifteen. Hope ya’ll are all well. ’Bye.”
Another one that would require immediate attention. He listened to the final message.
“Hey, Bishop? It’s Buddy. Um—I reckon ya’ll ain’t back yet, and that’s fine. But, um—I was wondering iffen there’s any way I might could stay at your house for a few days? See, Daddy—he’s got, um, comp’ny, and Mama, her and Jeter’s goin’ down to Biloxi for a little vacation, like, and you know they don’t give me a key, and I’d sure appreciate it iffen I could stay with ya’ll. I won’t be no trouble. I can sleep on the floor good as anywheres, and of course I’ll be at the store all day. Iffen it’s okay, I’ll just bike over on Friday night. Thanks.”
It was Saturday afternoon. Where had Buddy stayed last night? He walked out onto his covered patio, and immediately spotted Buddy’s backpack stashed behind a cushioned chaise lounge. That answered his question. He picked up the boy’s pack and carried it into the house, then dialed the store. Mary Lynn was off on Saturdays, and Art Hackney, his produce manager, answered the phone.
“Hey, Art, we still in business?” he queried.
“Holdin’ the fort, Jim, but just barely,” Art replied with a chuckle. “Ya’ll back, are you? How was the trip?”
“It was great. Had some fun, and found out a lot about my grandpa. Hey, is Buddy working, today?”
“Sure is. Best worker we got. Want to talk to him?”
“Please. Thanks, Art. I’ll be in bright and early on Monday.”
Buddy came to the phone, and the bishop assured him of his welcome, apologizing for not being home the night before.
“Oh, that ain’t no problem, Bishop. I ate and used the bathroom here at the store, and just slept on your back patio. It was fine, ’ceptin’ for that lady who lives by you. I reckon she thought I was goin’ to break in, or somethin’. She kept goin’ out in her back yard and peekin’ at me over the fence.”
“Over that high fence? What in the world—she must’ve been on a ladder!”
“Reckon she was. She just stood up there and frowned at me. Finally, I was afraid she was goin’ to call the police, so I says, ‘It’s all right, ma’am. I belong to Bishop Shepherd’s church and work at his store, and I’m just waitin’ for ’im to get home.’ She give me a real mean look then, but I didn’t see her no more.”
“My goodness. I’m certainly glad she didn’t call the police!”
“Boy-howdy, me too! I really didn’t have no place to go to, and they mighta run me in for trespassin’, or loitering, or somethin’.”
The bishop felt his anger rising again at Buddy’s selfish parents. It always simmered just below a boil, anyway, and bubbled over whenever they neglected their son this way.
“You know, you can always call Brother Wright or Brother Patrenko, or just about anybody in the ward. What about the Rexfords? They’d love to have you stay with them. Or the Birdwhistles. Don’t ever feel, Buddy, that you have no place to go. Not while you belong to this church!”
“Reckon I coulda done that, all right. I didn’t think. I guess I’m way too used to bargin’ in on your family. I’m sorry, Bishop.”
“Son, there’s nothing to be sorry about. You’re welcome here anytime, I didn’t mean that. I just don’t want you to be left in the lurch if we’re not home, like yesterday. Of course you were perfectly welcome to be here, and I’m sorry about Mrs. Busybody next door. I’m afraid she’s a thorn in the flesh to all of us.”
“Well, yessir, I can see how she might be. So, well, if you’re sure, I’ll come there after work.”
“We’ll be watching for you. We need to tell you all about our trip.”
He went upstairs and followed Tiffani in the shower rotation, then put on clean clothes and updated Trish on Buddy and the other messages.
“I’m going to run over to the hospital and check on Hilda,” he told her. “Then if I have time, maybe I’ll make a quick dash out to Ralph’s and see what’s bothering him.”
“Okay, honey. I think I’ll just make sandwiches for supper, so don’t feel you have to be on time for anything.”
“You take it easy, babe. You were a real trooper on the trip. I know it wasn’t easy, being pregnant and all.”
“I enjoyed every minute,” she assured him. “It was only when it got a little long between bathroom breaks that I worried.” She giggled. “I even used Junior’s outhouse. Now there was an experience!”
He grinned. “Not one that Mal was willing to share, I gather.”
“Not likely. But my bladder wasn’t quite as fastidious as hers at that point.”
* * *
He located Hilda Bainbridge’s room at the hospital and tiptoed in. She was alone and appeared to be resting comfortably. The only thing that didn’t seem right was a yellowish cast to her skin. He tiptoed out again and questioned one of the nurses on the floor.
“Well, yes, she’s a little jaundiced,” the nurse agreed. “We’re keeping an eye on that. Are you family?”
“No—I’m her bishop—her clergyman.”
“I see. Well, Doctor Asbell is her physician, and I suggest you talk to him about Mrs. Bainbridge. He can tell you more about her condition than I can.”
He nodded and went back into Hilda’s room, where he sat for a few minutes and wrote a brief card to be read to her, to go with a pleasant-scented lotion he had picked up at the small gift shop downstairs. Trish had suggested it, since Hilda couldn’t see well enough to enjoy a colorful bouquet but could appreciate the fragrance and feel of the lotion. He sat beside her for
a while, praying silently for her comfort and well-being, and for the Lord’s will to be done concerning her, then left her still sleeping soundly—no doubt sedated.
Ralph Jernigan’s dogs went through their usual security-check gyrations before his truck was allowed inside what the bishop thought of as Ralph’s “compound,” but then, as usual, the dog called “Corporal” came wagging his tail and sidling up to the visitor for a greeting.
“He sure is partial to you, Bishop,” Ralph said, holding open the door to his home for the guest to enter. “Shows he’s smart, I figure. Stand down, Corporal.” The bishop felt unaccountably flattered; he had often been almost spooked by the feral intelligence in Corporal’s eyes. He wouldn’t have wanted the dog to consider him an enemy.
“You’re back. That’s good. Any trouble?” Ralph asked.
The bishop sat down on a sofa that was a little high, resting as it did on boxes of canned goods. “No trouble at all. We had a wonderful trip, Ralph, doing some family history research.”
Ralph nodded. “Good work, that. Hope to have time for it someday. Got my messages, did you?”
“Sure did, my friend. What’s troubling you?”
Ralph leaned forward, as if the very furniture were listening.
“There’s trouble afoot,” he whispered.
The bishop lowered his voice, too—it was almost an automatic reaction. “What kind of trouble?”
“Not sure exactly what form it’ll take, but it’s to come down sometime this summer. And it won’t be pleasant. The enemy’s gathering.”
As usual, when talking to Ralph, the bishop felt confused. It was often difficult to establish just what Ralph’s vague predictions or premonitions, whatever they could be called, were about.
“Who’s the enemy?” he asked, keeping his face straight with less trouble than he once had in such a situation. These matters, he knew, were of utmost import to Ralph, who had suffered from paranoia since the Arkansas kidnapping of his only child, Jodie Lee, several years earlier. Ralph frowned and shook his head.
“Hard to identify, exactly,” he said. “Wife and I’ve been monitoring them for a couple of weeks now. Hints on the Internet, on talk radio, Christian radio, and on TV.”
“Um—are they enemies of the nation, Ralph, like terrorists? Or organized crime, or—”
Ralph shook his head again. “Enemies of the Lord, Bishop. And they’re coming here.”
“Now, just exactly what do you mean? What’ve you heard?”
“Oh, bits and pieces. You have to put it all together, like a puzzle. I just wanted to give you a heads-up, so you can prepare and strengthen the people.”
“All right. Well, if you get anything specific, will you let me know?” the bishop asked.
“I’ll do it, Bishop. You have my word.”
“Thank you, Ralph. How’s Linda?”
“Doing well, thanks. Taking a rest, right now. She took the night shift last night, with the shortwave radio.”
“I see.” He didn’t, not really, but it usually worked better to play along with Ralph in his world of intrigue and conspiracy. “Just remember, Ralph—love and faith cast out fears. We all need to pray and trust the Lord with our concerns. He knows all.”
Ralph nodded. “He inspired me to trust you with this information.”
The bishop patted Ralph’s shoulder. “I’ll do my best, Ralph,” he promised.
“All I can ask,” the man responded.
Chapter Eight
* * *
“ . . . Zion everywhere is growing”
Bishop Shepherd drove away from the Jernigan compound with his usual mixed feelings of compassion, affection, and confusion. He knew from past experience that it was fruitless to try to pin Ralph down to specifics or sources for his fears and warnings—that only upset the man further and frustrated both of them. Perhaps he would have a chance at church on Sunday to ask Linda privately what was really troubling her husband. She partook of his paranoia, but to a lesser degree, and she was more articulate than Ralph.
He decided to drop by the Arnaud family home and pay a quick visit to little Currie, he of the broken arm. Turning onto Bessemer Street, he spotted a familiar sight that made him smile. Elder Rand Rivenbark was being pushed in his wheelchair along the sidewalk at a pretty fair clip by his present companion, Elder John Moynihan, who had post-mission track and field aspirations and ran whenever he could. The bishop slowed and drove alongside the pair until Elder Rivenbark noticed him and waved, grinning. Since he was holding both missionaries’ backpacks on his lap, and gripping the armrest of his chair with his free hand, the bishop was afraid the gesture would send something tumbling. He envisioned the chair hitting an uneven section of sidewalk, of which there were many due to the roots of historic trees in this part of town, sending Elder Rivenbark and the packs sailing to a hard landing.
“I thought speeding was against mission rules,” he called out, and Elder Moynihan slowed and turned his companion’s chair down a sloping driveway to approach the Bishop’s now-stopped truck. The tall, lithe missionary laughed.
“We’re careful, Bishop,” he assured him. “There’s this one smooth stretch of new sidewalk along here, so we air it out a little. Don’t worry, I haven’t dumped him, yet—he’s the best comp I’ve ever had!”
“Well, you be careful, both of you. How’s the work going?”
“It’s going great, Bishop,” Elder Rivenbark said. His cheeks were rosy, and he looked as happy and healthy as the Bishop had ever seen him. “We taught three discussions today, and we’ve got another meeting tonight.”
“Who’re you seeing? Just in case I know any of them.”
Elder Moynihan replied. “We’ve got the Finell family—a young couple with one baby—and a young lady named Caroline Marsh—she’s a nurse—and an older man named Charles Stagley. Oh, and tonight, it’s our first meeting with Mrs. Edith Simmons and her daughter, Chelsea.”
The bishop thought for a moment. “This Charles Stagley—how old an older man would he be?” he asked. He had gone to school with a Chuck Stagley, but surely someone his age wouldn’t qualify for the title “older man,” would he?
The missionaries looked at each other. Elder Rivenbark shrugged. “Maybe mid-forties?” he suggested, and the bishop smiled. He supposed when you were in your early twenties, someone more than twice your age would qualify as “older.”
“I think I may know him,” he said. “A little shorter than I am, reddish hair thinning in back?”
“That’s him! Can you help us with him, Bishop?” asked Elder Moynihan.
“Well, I don’t know—what kind of help do you need?”
“Oh, just fellowshipping and all. And he needs to stop smoking and drinking coffee. I think he’s lonely, too. He said he has never married.”
The bishop was surprised. He had lost track of Chuck years ago and had only glimpsed him around town a time or two since then, but he recalled that Chuck had been going steady with a shy, pretty girl named Beverly something, and he’d been sure they would get married. It was sad to think of Chuck missing out on the kind of companionship and family life he had shared with Trish for the last twenty years.
“Well, I’ll sure do whatever I can,” he agreed. “Give him my best, will you?”
“We’ll be happy to,” Elder Rivenbark said, and his companion nodded eagerly. It was always good if the investigator knew someone who was a member of the Church—especially if that member was active and faithful and set a good example. As bishop, he knew he’d certainly better fit those criteria—although sometimes he doubted his adequacy in many aspects of Christian living—especially when it came to his dealings with his neighbors, the Lowells. He winced and tossed that unhappy thought to the back of his mind as he bade the Elders “Goodbye and Godspeed—but not too speedy.”
* * *
Little Currie Arnaud, age six, proudly showed the bishop his bright green cast.
“Just like the Hulk,” he bragged.
; “Wow, are you going to be that strong?” asked the bishop.
“Yep,” answered Currie.
“Yes, sir,” corrected his mother, Camelia, softly.
“Yes sir,” Currie repeated, smiling and butting his curly head against his mother’s hip.
“So how’d you break that arm, Currie?”
“Fell off of a dumb ol’ bike,” Currie responded.
“He thought he could still ride his sister’s bike, even though she just got her training wheels off,” Camelia explained. “But I reckon it just felt different to him.”
“Stupid bike,” Currie agreed. “Ain’t ridin’ that one no more.”
“I’m not riding that one anymore,” his mother prompted.
“Me, neither,” Currie agreed, and looked puzzled when the adults laughed.
* * *
“Look at this, Jimmy,” Trish called when he entered the back door. She was sitting at the kitchen table looking through the week’s accumulated mail. She held out a photograph to him.
It was of his sister-in-law Meredith, her husband Dirk, and their baby son, Dirk James, or D.J., as they called him. Merrie had, to the bishop’s everlasting surprise, insisted on giving the baby his name for its middle one, hinting that little D.J. might never have come into being if she hadn’t followed her brother-in-law’s counsel and laid her feelings on the line to her super-busy husband. The bishop studied the picture. All three looked exceptionally happy; he didn’t think in the few times he’d met Dirk that he’d ever seen him looking that pleased with life—not even at his wedding. He nodded in satisfaction.
“That is so cool,” he said softly. “Isn’t it, babe?”
“Way cool,” she agreed, using the children’s vernacular. “I’m so happy for Merrie. Glad that she has D.J., and that Dirk’s more attentive. I’m glad he got a wake-up call. Thanks for seeing to that.”
“Me!” He hadn’t supposed Trish had known about his advice to Merrie—and Merrie had asked him not to say anything. “So she told you about it, huh?” he added sheepishly.
Trish gave him a knowing smile. “Nope. But I can add two and two, and Mom’s good at dropping hints that she doesn’t even realize. So did you call Dirk, or did you persuade Merrie to talk to him? I know she was miserable.”
The Thorny Path Page 9
