He smiled. “Alone.”
He looked up at the sky. “Jesus Christ was fortunate. He had companions, disciples. Somebody to talk to.”
When he said that, the night changed for me. It wasn’t happy anymore; it was sad. And I knew: Preacher Man wasn’t perfect. He was lonely.
Again I didn’t know what to say. I just sat there, wondering how to make somebody like him feel better.
Then he spoke. “But I have my rewards.” And as his face lit up, my heart sort of lit up with it.
“I’ve met more people and seen more things than most men twice my age, Pete. I’ve been able to show people what’s real and what isn’t.
“And at night,” he said, “at night, after I’ve been preaching, I lie down and my soul is ready to explode, the joy is so powerful in me.”
He got up and started pacing around, the way he did at the revival meetings. He wasn’t looking at me anymore. It was like he was talking to a big crowd of people, and his talk got faster and faster.
“I think about the faces I’ve held in my hands and the people who have fallen to their knees before me, and I feel like I know Jesus Christ, like I am nearly Jesus Christ himself!”
His face was getting broad with his joy, and I felt it, sitting next to him. Felt it like a current of electricity. I trembled inside, it was so strong.
“And you, Pete,” he said, stopping in front of me. “I see it in you. I see the preacher in you, and it stirs me up inside.”
“Me?” I said, pointing to myself.
“I see it in your face, Peter.” He started pacing again, moving away from me. “You are busting out with the power of the Lord, and you don’t even know it. You have a power to do things, to help. You could make the people fall down on their knees. You could …”
And he stopped, his back to me and his face looking down the road that led out of town. He stopped dead, and the silence was tight and heavy while he stood there, looking out toward something I couldn’t see. And just when I was getting nervous and ready to make a sound, the Man turned around and looked straight at me. He looked at me and quietly said, “If only you could come.”
“Come where?” I said.
“Into the world. See what I see. Save the lives of thousands of people.”
He came back and sat down beside me, his head close to mine.
“I hate to see you wasted, Peter. A boy touched by the hand of God is a boy apart. Look at those around you—your parents, your friends. Are they not blind to the light that shines in you?”
He paused, then said more softly, “Are they not strangers to you?”
And the tears wanted to pour. I started to feel them when he said that, and they wanted to pour. But I held back.
He touched my arm and I could feel the heat of his hand through my sleeve.
“People will die and burn in hell if not for me, Peter.” His eyes were wide and wet in the glow cast by the streetlamp. I couldn’t look away.
“You can come with me and help me save them, Peter,” he whispered. “You can come.”
The tears stung, my heart pounded, my hands sweated, and my mind searched for reasons to say no.
“Will you come?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said.
The Leaving
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done …
God’s will was to have me travel with the Preacher Man. It was so clear to me that night, when he asked me to come with him, when I said yes, when we made our plans.
Thy will be done.
What were Mother and Pop to me, when the Lord was urging me to go? Jesus left his parents, didn’t he? But he was lucky. They knew he was the chosen one. My parents didn’t know that about me.
Thy will be done.
I sat there with the Man, next to the filling station, and we made plans till nearly eleven-thirty. I would have sat with him all night long, but I didn’t want Pop out looking for me. I didn’t want Pop coming after me.
We made our plans. I would meet him after the last revival meeting. I’d skip the meeting, since I’d have to bring my belongings. And we’d hitchhike out of town.
In my dreams that night, I was always fixing to leave. All night long in my dreams I was ready to go, all set. Ready to leave. So when I woke up and found myself in my own bed, in my own room, I was surprised by it.
Leaving home.
You think about it now and then. If you could just get away, you could find what you want. If you could just light out on your own, you’d find out about life. You’d be free.
Thinking about home, that morning, and leaving it behind me … I tell you, I didn’t know it would be so hard.
You love some things without ever knowing it. I never knew how much I loved the window beside my bed till that morning. Every day of my life I woke up next to that window. And if it was summer, the breeze would be coming through the screen and I’d hear the cardinals and the neighbors’ old dog. On Saturdays I might hear Pop with the mower and smell that sweet smell of grass coming into my room. And if it was winter, there’d be frost all around the edges of the window and I’d lie there, looking at the sparkles and the crystals, digging deeper under the quilts and feeling good about things.
Never knew I loved that window so.
And there are things about a house you grow to count on. Like the way the pipes squeaked when Mother was in the kitchen, washing up some dishes or cooking. The smell of Pop’s shaving cream still in the air when I hit the bathroom in the morning. The ticking of our big old clock on the mantel in the living room. The feel of our fat couch when I’d sink into it with a comic book. The garage, smelling of oil, with my bike there and Pop’s tools hanging where they always belong.
Things you count on. Things being where they belong.
I woke up that morning knowing I had to leave it all to go with the Man, knowing I had to go, and still wishing mightily that I could take it all with me. Mother and Pop and the house and the street and the town. What kind of person was I going to be without it all?
In the evening, when I left with the Man, I would be without it all.
Still, I met the day feeling higher than ever. Because I knew that I would never, never have to be away from the Preacher. In three days I’d come to depend on him so much. I’d come to rely on him being there, speaking The Word, looking at me with eyes that knew things. And I just couldn’t imagine how I would survive after he left town. I couldn’t imagine just going ahead with my mowing and knocking around town with Rufus. And the thought of going back to church and looking up at that pulpit and not seeing the Man there—how could I survive it?
Well, I was going with him and I didn’t have to worry about those things anymore. What I had to worry about was what to pack, what to write Mother and Pop in my good-bye note, and whether or not the Preacher and I could stay out of sight and get far enough away so the police wouldn’t be dragging me back home.
But the leaving worries I left mostly to the Man. I knew he could take me with him. He had The Power.
Pop was at work and Mother was out that morning, so I had the house to myself while I gathered up some things to take with me. It was like God was giving me a hand, letting me have an empty house.
Every person in the world must think about what he’d grab if his house was on fire. What things he’d take with him as he was running out the door.
That’s how I felt, trying to pick and choose the things to take with me. What was important? What did I need never to leave behind?
I walked through the house, looking at the family pictures on the wall: Mother and me sitting beside a big fat jack-o’-lantern. I was about three. Pop and me with our fishing lines in the river. I was about seven in that one. Me poking my head out of my backyard tent. I was about ten then.
I wanted to burn the pictures into my head, so I wouldn’t forget.
But I made my choices. I took from one of our picture albums a photograph Aunt Sue took of me and Mother and Pop the last Christmas. And a picture
of my dog who died a couple years ago. I took one of my little ceramic crosses off the kitchen wall. I took my award medals for Best Speller and Best Citizen from Mother’s jewelry box.
And I put them into my duffel bag with as many clothes as I could cram in. The Preacher told me to travel light, so one bag was all I could take.
Besides, you can’t stuff a bedroom window into a bag.
Then, when I was just zipping the bag shut, Rufus called to me from downstairs. If the screen door was unlocked, Rufus generally just walked on into the hall and yelled. It nearly made Pop’s ears smoke, he’d get so annoyed. But Mother liked Rufus, and she told Pop, “Let the boy yell. He feels at home here.”
So Rufus was downstairs calling my name.
At first I wanted to crawl under the bed and hide till he went away. I felt like I’d been caught at something, like I’d been doing something wrong and Rufus had walked in on it.
Then I felt the pull to see my old friend. Rufus had been the best friend in all the world to me, and I was sorry that he couldn’t come with me or ever understand what it was between me and the Preacher. Rufus and I had gone our separate ways, that was clear to me, and there was nothing I could do to change things. Still, the old hound dog in me wanted to see him.
But before I could make up my mind what to do, he was walking into my room.
“Hey, Pete.” He gave me a friendly knock on the arm and sat down on the bed.
“Hey, Rufus.” Now that he was in the room, I felt stranger than ever. I didn’t know what to say to a boy I’d been friends with for seven years.
He looked at my duffel.
“Going somewhere?”
“Clearing out some stuff,” I answered.
Rufus nodded, then let his eyes wander around the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders drooping, his arms dangling between his legs.
“So, whatcha doing today?”
I knew he would ask that. He’d always sit just that way on my bed and ask just that question when he was bored and looking for something to do.
I didn’t know what to say. There was no way I was going to bum around with Rufus on my leaving day, but I never was a fast liar and I couldn’t think of what to say.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Want to go swimming?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so.”
Rufus considered things a minute, and I stood with my arms crossed, looking out the window.
“Pete,” he said, “you mad at me or what?”
“What makes you think I’m mad?” I was still staring out the window.
Rufus watched me.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Seems like you’re trying to keep away from me or something. I’ve never seen you act so funny.”
I flopped down in my desk chair.
“I’m not acting funny,” I answered, trying not to look him in the eye. “I’m just … preoccupied is all.”
“What with?”
“Oh, just … things.”
“What things?”
“Things, Rufus, just things!”
My voice got too loud, and it made him jump. He stared at me.
“Well, hell, Pete …”
“Don’t say that!”
“Say what?”
“You know.”
“What? Hell?”
“Yeah. You ought to know better than to say that around me.”
“Hell, I mean, heck, Pete, I’ve said it around you a thousand times.”
“Not since I got saved,” I answered. I don’t know what was wrong with me. I guess I thought I was already some kind of assistant preacher and Rufus was my first sinner.
He screwed up his face.
“I figured so,” he said.
“Figured what?”
He looked at me, and I could see he was getting hot.
“I figured that preacher had you crazy in the head.”
That burned me. I jumped up and said, “What business is it of yours, anyway? Since when do you know it all?”
But Rufus wasn’t stopping.
“He’s got you crazy, Pete. Anybody can see it. I mean, it’s like you’re living on Mars the last few days. And when he walks up, you might as well be some robot, the way he’s got you remote controlled. ‘Yes, Preacher. No, Preacher. Let’s get those devils, Preacher.’ ”
I was so mad I felt like smashing his face. First person in the world I ever wanted to hit. I wanted to cuss him out and I wanted to knock him out. And feeling that way, I was wondering all the time what the Lord must be seeing in me.
I tried to get hold of myself. I sat down hard on the chair again and clenched my fist, then unclenched it. I took a deep breath.
“Rufus, you’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The hell I don’t. Pete, what is going on?”
I sighed real hard and flopped my legs out in front of me. I never have been able to stay mad at anybody for long. Especially Rufus. I was already tired of fighting.
“You won’t understand,” I said.
“Try me.”
And I wanted to. I wanted to try him, to see if he would understand, because so much was happening to me, everything changing so fast, I needed somebody to tell. My duffel bag was sitting there, full of my last thirteen years in that house with Mother and Pop, and I needed somebody to tell.
“I’m going with him,” I said, real low.
Rufus leaned forward.
“With him?”
I nodded my head. “I’m leaving town with him. I’ve been called to help him preach.”
Rufus’s mouth hung wide open.
“Who called you?” he asked.
“God, you fool! God called me!” I couldn’t believe how thick Rufus could be at times.
Rufus just stared at me some more. Then he asked, “When you leaving?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?” He sat straight up. “You’re just taking off, just like that? What about your folks?”
I was ashamed to look at him when I answered. “They don’t know I’m going.” I stared at the floor.
Rufus took some seconds to let it all sink in.
“Pete,” he said, barely a whisper, “Pete, you ought not to do this. It’s going to hurt them real bad.”
I looked at him, exasperated.
“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know? I know, Rufus. I know. But there’s nothing I can do. God has called me, and I can’t turn my back. I’ve got to put God before everything else, even Mother and Pop. Call it screwy if you want. But I can’t live any other way, Rufus. I just can’t.”
I was looking at him then, my best friend, right in the eyes, because I was telling the truth and I wasn’t afraid of it. And I was begging him, I guess, begging him to forgive me and to understand. I needed somebody in the world to understand.
He didn’t. I knew he didn’t. But I figure he knew I was dead serious, and I figure he was willing to accept what I was telling him. So he didn’t say anything more about my folks.
“Well … what time you taking off?”
“After the revival tonight.”
“You just going to walk out of the church with him and keep on going?”
“We’re meeting up at Anderson’s filling station about ten. Then we’ll head out of town.”
“Your folks won’t be out looking for you?”
“They’ll think I’m cleaning up at the church till after midnight. By then, they’ll both be asleep. Won’t know I’m gone till morning.” I felt ashamed telling him. “I’m going to leave them a letter, though. I’m going to explain.”
Rufus wasn’t looking at me anymore. He was looking at his feet and shaking his head. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he finally stood up.
His eyes were out the window. Rufus couldn’t turn his face to me.
“Well, Pete,” he said, real quiet, “I guess there’s no talking you out of it.” He walked over and stood a minute at
the door.
“I’ll look after your folks,” he said.
Then he was gone. And I was left sitting there with all that shame.
The Wait
Right about here I feel my insides hardening up, and I think the telling has got to stop.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me….
Yes. I have known that valley and that fear. I have known the shadow of death. And, in the remembering, in the telling, there is a terrible loneliness.
My best friend left me that morning with all the pain that comes to you when you hurt somebody you love. Rufus walked out, and I sat there in my room, thinking about Pop working on the lines, Mother’s face when she saw me at the revival. Thinking about how much I owed them.
It’s a terrible pain.
But even with the guilt, even so, unfortunately I still thought I was doing the right thing. You owe your parents for a lot. But you owe God for your whole existence. You owe Him for life everlasting. How can you turn your back on the One who made the heavens, and the earth, and you?
I could not turn my back.
I took my duffel outside and set it in the bushes behind the garage.
I spent most of the rest of the day working around the house, doing all those chores I’d kept putting off. I cleaned out the basement for Mother and I painted the light post for Pop. I mowed the yard and I pruned the hedge. I even gave the front porch a good scrubbing.
Just as the Lord would have wanted it, I set my house in order.
And the work felt good. I sweated and I strained in the heat, but it felt good, those hours when my hands were busy and my mind clear.
Later in the afternoon, Mother came home with the car full of groceries. Mother always liked to buy food “for her two men,” she said. So when I helped her carry the bags into the house, there was this ache in me. And as we unpacked the stuff, and I saw my favorite cookies and the canned meat nobody in the house liked but me, the ache got so bad I thought maybe something really was wrong with me, and I wondered if somebody thirteen could have a heart attack.
When I was little, I remember I used to talk to Mother about what I’d be when I grew up. And the most important thing to me was that whatever job I had, she could be with me. I guess I couldn’t take the idea of living by myself, without Mother. So I’d tell her we could both be scientists and have our own laboratory. Or I’d tell her I wouldn’t have a job at all, but I’d just stay home with her and make toys to sell to people.
A Fine White Dust Page 4
