Ribbon of Years

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  The house was unnaturally silent.

  "Miriam?"

  He moved toward the stairs, but a sound from the back of the house caused him to stop and listen. Yes, there it was again. Almost like a gasp for breath.

  With a new sense of urgency, he headed for the kitchen. The back door was wide open. But before he got near enough to close it, he realized someone was in the studio.

  "Miriam?" He stepped into the doorway.

  The sight that met his eyes caused his old heart to miss a beat. Paint was splattered everywhere. On the drapes. On the walls. On the floor. And the canvases of Miriam's paintings had been slashed. Every single one of them.

  Miriam knelt in the midst of the chaos, Del's ruined portrait held between her hands. She was wearing trousers and one of the baggy oversized shirts she liked to work in. Her feet were bare, her hair disheveled.

  Frank awkwardly knelt beside his daughter, his old knees bending by sheer force of will. "What happened?"

  She choked on a sob.

  "Were you robbed? Are you hurt?"

  She shook her head. "It was Luke."

  "No!"

  "Oh, Daddy." She hid her face against his chest. "What am I to do?"

  She hadn't called him Daddy since she was ten years old. Frank held her close, patted her, stroked her, rocked her while she cried anew, deep, wrenching sobs, her tears wetting his shirtfront.

  When at last the storm had passed, they got up from the floor, arms still around each other and made their way from the studio to the kitchen, where they sat at the table.

  "Tell me what happened," Frank said gently.

  "Luke came home drunk last night. I . . . I didn't say much to him then. He wouldn't have understood anyway. But this morning, I confronted him while he was still in bed. Maybe I should have waited for him to get up. I suppose I wanted to punish him in the midst of his hangover." She gripped Frank's hand and met his gaze. "He said horrible things, Dad. I didn't know he'd heard such words, let alone that he would say them to me." Tears welled again, threatening to spill over. "I demanded he get dressed and go to church with me. Then I went back to my room to try to calm down." She closed her eyes and dropped her chin toward her chest.

  I'm too old for this, God. I think I've lived too long.

  "It was like he went crazy," Miriam continued softly. "I heard things crashing to the floor and came running downstairs. Luke was ranting and cursing while he . . . while he slashed at the canvases with a knife and spilled supplies and knocked over tables and easels. I couldn't understand most of what he said, except that he hated me. He said he hated Del, too. He cursed the government and the war. I couldn't make sense of a lot of it, and I didn't try to stop him. I couldn't." A moan escaped her throat. "I was afraid of him, Dad. I was afraid of my own son."

  Frank's chest hurt, like the weight of the whole world was pressing upon his heart. "Where's Luke now?"

  "I don't know." She shook her head. "He ran out. I heard his car start. I guess he left."

  "Miriam, I think we should call the police."

  Her eyes widened. "I couldn't."

  "He could be a danger to himself or someone else."

  She seemed to crumple like a house of cards, her shoulders sagging. "Okay, Dad. If you think we should."

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE SHE'D MADE JESUS LORD OF HER LIFE, Miriam was angry at Him. She didn't pray. She didn't read the Bible. She still went to church, but it was a routine, not an act of worship. Inside, her heart had turned cold. Her ears were unable to hear, her eyes unable to see.

  She didn't cry either. She hadn't shed a tear since the day Luke destroyed her studio and then left home, disappearing without a trace.

  Many were the afflictions of the righteous. That was what God had told her years before. Well, losing her son was one too many afflictions. Whatever happened to the abundant life she'd been promised?

  Nothing seemed to matter to Miriam now. Just getting out of bed was a chore. She hadn't put a paintbrush to canvas, refused even to enter her studio. Nor had she prepared her flower gardens for summer. Why bother?

  She knew her father and stepmother were worried about her. Jacob and Elaine, too. Charlie and Rose Ireland, her pastor, friends at church, and even her neighbors were worried.

  Miriam didn't care. Let them worry. She couldn't change how she felt. Her son was missing—he and his friend Sean—and her world had stopped turning on that dreadful morning seven weeks before.

  The ringing of the doorbell startled Miriam. She'd been sitting in the living room, staring into space, while from the television set some reporter spewed more bad news.

  "Police in Washington, D.C., arrested thousands of protesters who were blocking traffic in the nation's capital city in an attempt to stop government activities. After several weeks of antiwar demonstrations . . ."

  The bell rang again.

  Miriam didn't want to see anybody. She wasn't in the mood. Why couldn't everyone leave her alone?

  Her visitor was persistent. The doorbell rang yet again, followed by knocking.

  With a sigh, Miriam rose from her chair, turned off the sound on the television, then went to answer the door. If it was a salesman, so help her, she was going to give him a piece of her mind.

  It wasn't a salesman.

  It was Sean Lewis.

  Miriam stared at the boy as if he were a ghost.

  "Hello, Mrs. Tucker." He looked thinner. His long hair begged to be washed, as did the clothes he wore. Deep circles etched his eyes.

  "Where's Luke?" She stepped onto the front porch and looked toward the street.

  "He isn't here. He didn't come with me."

  She met Sean's gaze a second time. "But he's all right?"

  He shrugged.

  Miriam grabbed hold of his arm, afraid he would leave before she learned what she needed to know. "Come inside."

  He came without protest.

  She took him into the living room and had him sit beside her on the sofa. "Tell me where he is."

  "I don't know for sure."

  "Then tell me what you do know." She fought to keep her voice level, but what she wanted to do was shake him until his teeth rattled. "Where have you been all this time?"

  "San Francisco, mostly." His gaze dropped toward the floor. "We went down there to party, have a good time. We had some good trips, too." He shook his head slowly. "But then Luke got in with some guys that were doin' really heavy stuff and—" he stopped, looked at Miriam, shrugged again—"I got out. Decided to come back to Boise."

  What he hadn't said frightened Miriam more than what he had said. She wasn't so out of touch with reality that she didn't understand that "good trips" and "heavy stuff" meant drugs. One look at Sean's face would have told her that.

  " I . . . Luke was headed back east last I saw him. Him and some other guys."

  "Back east?"

  "New York, I think."

  O God. Why so far?

  Sean stood. "I better go. I gotta find me a place to crash for the night."

  "You're not going home?" Miriam stood too.

  "My dad threw me out. Said he never wanted to see me again, long as he lived." He shrugged. "I guess I knew I wouldn't be welcome. My old man's not the forgiving type."

  Although Sean had tried to pretend otherwise, Miriam saw his hurt in his eyes. "Have you eaten, Sean? Are you hungry?"

  He shook his head, but she suspected that was a lie.

  She touched his arm again. "Come into the kitchen. I'll warm some leftovers."

  Hours later, Miriam sat upright in bed, unable to sleep, her thoughts churning.

  Heaven only knew why, but after feeding Sean, she'd felt compelled to offer him a place to stay for the night. She'd never liked the boy, had been convinced from the first that he was a bad influence on her son, and now he was staying under her own roof. For all she knew, he would rob her blind during the night.

  What was I thinking?

  As if in answer to he
r silent question, she looked at her nightstand. Or more precisely, she looked at the Bible on the nightstand. There was a thin film of dust on the burgundy leather cover, proclaiming the book's disuse.

  If You could bring Sean back, why not bring Luke, too?

  She reached for the Bible and placed it on her lap. With her right hand, she swept away the dust, then trailed her index finger over the small gold lettering in the lower right corner. Miriam Tucker, it said.

  The Bible had been a birthday gift from Luke five years before. He'd earned the money to buy it by mowing neighborhood lawns and had been so tickled by her surprise.

  She set the book on its spine and let it fall open at random. The book of Ezekiel. Her eyes were drawn to a highlighted passage: "I will feed My flock and I will lead them to rest," declares the Lord God. "I will seek the lost, bring back the scattered, bind up the broken, and strengthen the sick."

  If that was meant to comfort her, it didn't. Her son was lost. He was scattered. He was broken and sick. She wanted him brought back now. She wanted him made whole.

  Her thoughts warred with the words on the page, causing them to become muddled in her head. Reading was more an exercise of moving her eyes down one column, then the next and the next. But she kept going, as if she had no choice.

  Ten or fifteen minutes passed, perhaps more, perhaps less. And then she read: "I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you will be clean; I will cleanse you from all your filthiness and from all your idols. Moreover, I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; and I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh."

  She blinked to clear her vision, only then realizing there were tears streaming down her cheeks.

  I WELL REMOVE YOUR HEART OF STONE, BELOVED.

  Remove my heart of stone. Forgive me. You are Lord, not I. Help me to see Your hand in this, but even if I can't, help me to remember You're in control.

  She lifted her gaze toward her bedroom door.

  I've blamed Sean for Luke's choices, and that was wrong of me. Take that root of bitterness and help me see Sean as You see him. A boy who needs to be loved. Not a troubled child. Just a child.

  She sighed as she closed her eyes.

  Behold, Your bondslave. Be it done to me according to Your will.

  JULIANNA

  SUMMER 2001

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  JACOB LOOKED AT SEAN. "LOTTA THINGS'VE CHANGED SINCE then. Isn't that right, Senator?"

  Senator? My eyes widened. Senator Lewis? He was Miriam's Sean?

  I tried to envision this well-respected Republican senator as a drugged-out, runaway, troublemaking teen. I failed.

  Jacob handed the campaign button back to Sean. "I always wondered. Did you vote for Nixon in '72?"

  The senator chuckled. "I believe the privacy of the voting booth is still sacred, Mr. McAllister. You'll have to keep wondering." He looked at me. "It's because of Miriam that I didn't end up in a gutter somewhere. Or, more than likely, prison. She took me in, gave me a home after my dad washed his hands of me, saw that I finished my high school education, then helped me go to college." There was a sheen of heartfelt emotion in Sean's eyes. "She loved me and became a second mother to me. I owe her everything." He leaned forward and drew the box toward himself. "She showed me what was in here that first year I was with her. I learned a lot about the right way to live as she told me her stories."

  I sensed I'd been learning, too, even if I wasn't sure exactly what.

  "Some folks thought Miriam had more than her fair share of tough breaks. Maybe she did. But when life knocked her down, she looked up," Sean said.

  "Looked up?" I said. "Don't you mean got up?"

  Sean shook his head. "No, I mean looked up. She looked up to the Master and let Him put her back on her feet."

  I shifted my gaze to the others. "All of you believe in God the same way Miriam did, don't you?"

  "Yes," they answered in unison.

  "And if I can be half as faithful as she was," Sean added, "I'll consider my life well lived."

  I was afraid one of them would ask me what I believed about God and faith, and I didn't want to tell them I—

  I what? What do I believe?

  Rather than try to discover the answer to my own question, I changed the subject. "What's left in the box? I know there were some other things."

  Sean gave me an enigmatic smile—looking every inch the successful politician—then reached in and withdrew the photo in a wrought-iron frame. His expression changed, became pensive, as he looked at it.

  A flash of understanding hit me. "It's one of Luke's."

  "Yes." He turned the frame toward me. "Of all the photographs Luke ever took, this one meant the most to Miriam."

  "When did he come home? Was it very long after you?"

  "Luke didn't ever come home."

  I was horrified. "She never saw her son again?"

  "Oh, she saw him, but it was many years later. And not here."

  MIRIAM

  AUTUMN 1988

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  MIRIAM LOVED THE MONTH OF SEPTEMBER. SUMMER WARMTH lingered in the daytime, but the crisp breath of autumn arrived with sunset. Flower gardens blazed in bright oranges and yellows, and tree leaves began to change colors overnight.

  It was on one such late September day that Miriam Tucker sat in her backyard, reading a letter from her longtime friend, Sally Farnsdale, while young Chuck Ireland—Charlie's grandson—cut the grass.

  Dearest Miriam,

  How remiss I've been about staying in touch with you during the past year. It amazes me, the way every year flies by faster than the one before.

  My daughter gave birth to our third grandchild, a little girl, two weeks ago, and I am writing this letter from their home in Pennsylvania. Samantha Joan has a full head of dark curly hair, but she is already beginning to lose it. I suspect it will grow back fair, the same as her mother and brothers.

  My grandson Doug's Little League team was in the play-offs this year, and I was here to see it. I've enclosed a newspaper article that features a photograph of him after he hit a home run in the final game. (You'll have to excuse the bragging grandmother in me. I bought ten copies of that day's paper.)

  Every time I see Doug play, I'm reminded of my brother. Douglas excelled at baseball, too. I can still remember how he fantasized about playing in the big leagues, but of course, World War II put an end to those dreams.

  I don't know if you've heard that Tad's sister Nancy had a stroke last winter. She passed away in the spring. Tad was in River Bluff for the funeral, and his time there made him homesick for Idaho. Arizona was a nice interlude for us, but it isn't where we belong. Now that both the girls are living elsewhere with their families, there isn't much to keep us in Phoenix. Tad is planning to retire when he turns 55, and we want to travel and enjoy ourselves while we're still able.

  The hardest thing will be leaving our wonderful church family in Phoenix. We've been blessed. The pastor, elders, and other leaders are so on fire for Christ, and Tad and I have grown enormously in our faith walk because of the teaching we've received. So God had His reasons for transferring Tad all those years ago, even if we couldn't understand at the time. But isn't that how it so often is?

  Do write and let me know how you're doing. Your letters are always such an inspiration and encouragement to me. We'll be back in Phoenix by the time you receive this letter.

  God bless,

  Sally

  Miriam set the letter on the patio table, then unfolded the newspaper clipping and studied the photograph. It was grainy, of course, but she could see the amazing resemblance of young Doug Stanton to his great-uncle.

  Closing her eyes, she reflected upon her girlhood, recalling familiar faces, many of them—like her father—gone now.

  "How fleeting life is, Lord," she whispered, looking once again at the clipping. After a moment or two more, she folded the paper in half.

  On the backside
of the article was an advertisement for a photography studio. Going Out of Business, it proclaimed. Everything Must Go. Beneath that heading were framed photo-graphs—mountain ranges, sunsets, city streets, a Victorian-era house.

  Miriam felt a tiny catch in her heart as she looked at the advertisement.

  That's my house.

  She held it closer and studied the picture. It looked so much like one Luke used to have hanging on his bedroom wall.

  I must be getting senile. Why would a photograph of my house be in a Pennsylvania newspaper? I'm being ridiculous. Unless. . .

  Her pulse began to race.

  It wasn't possible. It was positively insane to contemplate the notion, even for an instant.

  But contemplate it she did.

  She walked into the house, clutching the clipping to her breast, went straight to the telephone, picked up the receiver, and dialed.

  Sean Lewis pulled his Mercedes to the curb and cut the engine. Before opening the car door, he said a quick prayer for Miriam. He asked for wisdom for himself, too, so he would know the right things to say.

  As a tax attorney, Sean spent his days dealing with facts. He liked to see things in black and white, liked to make things add up properly, liked to connect point A with point B in an orderly and direct manner. The likelihood of Miriam's finding Luke after more than seventeen years of silence because of a random newspaper clipping was too far-fetched to even consider.

  But he would do just about anything for Miriam. He loved her that much.

  He got out and strode toward the house, where he gave the front door a quick rap. He wasn't surprised when it opened almost at once. He'd known she'd be waiting for him.

  "Come in, Sean. Come in." Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

  He obeyed, and she closed the door behind him. When she turned around, he placed his hands on her shoulders, leaned down, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  "Did you call that investigator friend of yours?" she asked, not wasting a moment on pleasantries.

  He nodded. "He's coming to my office in the morning. Why don't you show me that newspaper?"