It was good to relax. Good to feel the worry, the edginess, ease out of him. He sat still, listening to the subtle sounds around him—faint rustlings of small animals in the underbrush, sporadic calls of birds, or the faint whir of their wings as they made brief flights from limb to limb. It was a relatively quiet time of day for birds. An occasional mosquito hovered, whining, by his ear, and he stirred to bat it away.
He felt prayed out. He had petitioned the Lord, who knew what troubled him, what his needs were. Now he simply murmured, “In thine own good time, Lord,” and allowed the peace of the place to minister to his soul.
How long he stayed, he wasn’t sure, but the sun had moved a ways across the sky when he stood, in response to a sudden thought that it was time to go, now, and began to make his way back to his truck. He felt comfortable, his limbs free, his neck and shoulders relaxed in a way he hadn’t realized they needed to be. Best of all, his mind was at ease. He still hadn’t received an answer to his prayers, not that he could recognize, anyway, but somehow he was at peace. Perhaps that was the answer.
He wasn’t too sorry to leave the falls; the constant splashing of the stream had begun to make him thirsty—that and the fact that he hadn’t had a sip of water for approximately twenty hours. Fasting from food had never been a particularly hard thing for him to do, but he craved water like a man on a raft by the time the twenty-four hours were up, and usually drank most of his first meal to break the fast.
It was funny, he reflected, how fasting worked. How it made a man realize his dependence on regular supplies of food and water to be able to function, and how it humbled him, and made him realize, as well, his dependence on God and the things of God for spiritual nourishment. Interesting, too, how the experience could soften a person’s heart, allowing him access to those deeper feelings he might at other times ignore or not even recognize. No wonder tears flowed so readily at fast and testimony meeting.
* * *
As he turned his truck back toward Fairhaven, he switched on the radio as an automatic response, wincing as a blare of music jarred his senses. He punched the button for another preset, a talk station he sometimes enjoyed.
“You’re listening to ‘Family Spotlight,’ with Dr. Randall Deems,” a woman’s voice informed him. “Today’s topic is anger on the home front and how to deal with it.”
“Huh!” the bishop said with a chuckle, and turned up the volume.
“Dr. Deems, in our last segment, you said that anger is a secondary emotion, rather than a primary one. Could you explain that a little more?”
“Yes, Virginia,” came the familiar, friendly voice of the family therapist and radio personality. “You see, what happens, especially with men, is that when something occurs that causes us hurt, for example—or frustration or fear—we very quickly gloss over those emotions, which are the primary ones, and move right into anger, which is a secondary response. If we felt comfortable and free to feel and acknowledge the fear, or hurt, or frustration for what they are, we might not be so quick to become angry. This happens with women, too, of course, but we find that it’s far more common with men—probably because we guys feel society’s pressure to be strong and in charge—macho, if you will. Anger, in our society, is a more acceptable feeling for a man to express than hurt, frustration, or fear, which might make him appear weak, or not so much in control of himself.”
“So, you’re saying that when we feel angry, we should look back to see what the very first emotion was that we felt—what, in effect, made us angry?”
“Absolutely. Sometimes it’s hard, because the anger comes so quickly. But with practice, we can identify what that primary emotion was, and learn to respond to it appropriately, rather than unleashing anger all over the place. And I might add, Virginia, that anger is a choice. It’s a momentary, split-second decision that we make, to choose anger over the emotion we regard as unacceptable, or too painful to acknowledge for what it is. Once we realize that, we can begin to learn to control that anger-response, and keep from saying and doing things we’ll later regret.”
“Now, let me get this straight—you’re saying that nobody really makes us mad? That it’s a choice we make, to get angry?”
“That’s exactly it,” he agreed with a chuckle. “Although we’d much prefer to blame the other person, wouldn’t we? We like to say, ‘Ooh, you make me so mad!’ We don’t want to say, ‘Ooh, that remark hurt my feelings so much,’ or ‘Ooh, I’m so afraid I’m going to lose your love or respect.’”
“Well, that’s a new perspective on anger for me. Thank you, Dr. Deems. When we come back, we’ll discuss how to apply this knowledge to various family situations that come up.”
As the station moved into the commercial break, the bishop thought about what he had heard. It was uncanny, really, how the explanation made sense, and how it dovetailed with the conversation he’d had earlier that day with Mary Lynn Connors. He thought about his own response to Jack Padgett—the anger he felt toward the man. What primary emotion had he skipped over—was it fear for Melody and Andi? Frustration that Melody wouldn’t admit there was a problem that needed solving? Fear that he, as their bishop, might fail them? All the above? And what of Jack, himself? What fear or hurt or frustration was he masking with his angry, abusive ways?
He listened to the rest of the discussion to see if there were more insights to be gained, but only one statement stood out in his memory after the program ended: “In almost all cases, people who abuse their spouse eventually turn to abusing their children as well. If no one intervenes, the anger just spills over and wreaks havoc in all close personal relationships, especially with those younger or weaker than the abuser. That’s why anger management is so very important in our lives.”
“If no one intervenes,” the bishop repeated to himself. “Well, Brother and Sister Padgett, somebody’s going to intervene, before your little Andi gets physically hurt.” The child was already obviously aware of what was going on between her parents, with her comment about Daddy spanking Mommy all over. In spite of Melody’s pleas, he couldn’t, in good conscience, let the matter go unchecked any longer.
* * *
“Hey, there, you’re home early,” Trish greeted, coming to give him a hug. “How’s your day been?”
“Very interesting. Enlightening, even. How’s yours?”
“Good. Had a call from Meredith, and she sounded happy. She gave me a message for you. Let’s see—‘the method seems to be working,’ I believe she said.” Trish gave him a curious glance, but he just nodded, smiling a little.
“Good,” he said. “That’s great, I’m glad to hear it. Say, who’s that out playing with Mallory?”
Trish frowned. “That’s little Andi Padgett. It’s kind of weird, actually. I got a call from Melody today, asking if I could pick Andi up from her day care and bring her here till Jack can pick her up after work. Melody said she hated to bother me, but she couldn’t go get her, herself, and the day care lady said Andi had thrown up, and she was afraid she’d get the other kids sick, if she was coming down with something. It kind of ticked me off, you know? It was almost like, ‘it’s okay if your kids get sick from her, though, so take her to your house.’ Andi seems okay, so far—no fever or anything, so I’ve let her play with Mal—but I don’t understand why Melody couldn’t take care of her, herself. She’s not working, is she? And I know they have two cars. I’d certainly think she could cancel any plans she had, and stay home with a sick child. It’s all just kind of strange.”
The bishop gazed at his wife for a long moment, then looked out toward the backyard where Mallory and Andi squealed and ran from a playful cat.
“I think I’m going to break one of my own resolutions, and ask that little girl a question or two,” he said.
Trish looked at him soberly. “You think maybe this has to do with what’s going on in their marriage? You think Melody’s been beaten up or something?”
“It’s my first thought, but I could be wrong.” He frown
ed. “Maybe I’d better call Melody first. S’cuse me, sweetheart.”
He went up into their bedroom and dialed the Padgett’s number. Melody answered after the fourth ring, her voice anxious.
“Hello? Sister Shepherd? Is Andi okay?”
“It’s the bishop, Melody. Andi seems fine; she’s out playing with Mallory. I’m just wondering if you’re okay? Wondering why you didn’t pick Andi up, or have Trish take her home to your house?”
There was a silence. “Oh. I’m just fine, Bishop. Truly, I am. It’s just that—Jack and I have an arrangement, that only he can pick Andi up from day care, or somebody that he calls and okays to do it.”
“Why can’t that be you, Andi’s mom? And why can’t she come home to you?”
A longer silence ensued. Finally, reluctantly, her voice small and far away, Melody replied. “I’d rather not answer that, Bishop, if it’s all right with you. It’s just an arrangement—an agreement—that Jack and I have. I’m sorry if it put your wife out. We won’t bother you again.”
“Aw, Melody—Trish was glad to help. I just don’t understand. It seems like Jack doesn’t trust you to take care of Andi, or something.”
“Well, I guess—yes, that’s it. I guess he doesn’t.”
No, that wasn’t it. She was too quick to jump on that explanation. He cast about in his mind for a better one. “Melody, Jack hasn’t beat you up, incapacitated you somehow, has he? Broken your arm, or something?”
“No, honestly, Bishop. If you wanted, you could come look at me and see that I’m perfectly all right. Jack just . . . he just likes to supervise my mothering. He likes us to be a family together.”
“Uh-huh, okay. Well, we’ll be glad to keep Andi till he gets here. And we’ll be glad to help with her, anytime. Please don’t ever feel like you’re imposing on us. She’s a sweet little gal, and Mallory enjoys her. You take care, now.”
He could hear her sigh of relief before she said good-bye. His own sigh, once the call was disconnected, was longer and more troubled. He had not yet arrived at the complete truth.
Chapter Nineteen
* * *
“ . . . still in error’s gloomy ways”
Slowly the bishop descended the stairs to find his wife. She looked at him with a question in her eyes, and he shrugged.
“She insists she’s fine. Says she and Jack have an arrangement that only he, or someone he okays, picks Andi up from day care. But she’s not allowed to. She says he likes for them to be a family, together.”
Trish frowned. “Meaning what? That she can’t be alone with Andi, or drive her anywhere? Oh, of course, I’ll bet that’s it. Jim, remember when I asked Melody to help with Mal’s birthday party, and she said she couldn’t? I’ll bet it’s because if she came, Andi couldn’t! Jack doesn’t allow them to be alone together, does he? But why?”
Suddenly the bishop was certain. “Because he’s scared to death she’ll take Andi and run—leave him—if she’s ever allowed to have any opportunity alone with her.”
Trish stared out toward the backyard. “Jim, that is so sick. And so sad. He’s got them held captive, doesn’t he, right in everybody’s plain sight?”
“It’s looking that way. Hon, do you happen to know the name or number of the day care lady where you picked Andi up?”
“I do. It’s Mrs. Marshall. I don’t know the number, but I remember the name of her day care, because I thought it was kind of cute—Kinder-Tenders. I’ll see if it’s in the phone book.”
With grim determination the bishop punched in the number his wife showed him and asked for Mrs. Marshall. He explained that he was the Padgetts’ clergyman, and that he was concerned that all might not be well in their home.
“Have you ever noticed anything unusual about the family, or how they do things?” he asked her. “Or has little Andi ever said anything to make you wonder if there was some kind of abuse going on in the home?”
The woman wasn’t immediately willing to answer. “What did you say your name is?”
“I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t. This is Bishop James Shepherd.” He wondered if it would help if he said he was a representative of the Mormon Church, then decided against it. “I’m the family’s . . . pastor, and I’m fearful that Andi might have some special needs.”
“I see. Actually, I have wondered about the Padgetts, at times. Andrea’s a sweet little girl, but every now and again she yells mean and abusive things at the other kids, and pretends to hit them with toys. It’s kind of strange, because she just seems to do it in the course of play, not when she’s angry or upset. It’s like she’s just acting out something she’s seen, same as having a tea party, or playing with pots and pans. But if she’s really upset about something, she tends to go off in a corner and huddle down and cry, real quiet. That, in itself, seems kind of strange to me, because most kids, when something or somebody bugs them, they really set it up and want justice done right now.”
“Exactly—and that’s very interesting. How about her mother? Does she come often to pick Andi up, or for any other reason?”
“You know, I’ve only seen Mrs. Padgett the one time, when the three of them first came to look at our center. I’ve assumed she doesn’t drive, or have a car, because it’s always Daddy that picks Andi up, or somebody that he calls ahead of time and authorizes, like today. Was that your wife?”
“It was. We’ve just gradually become aware that something might be amiss in the family, and I’m going to talk to Mr. Padgett and see if we can get them some help. Would you just kind of keep your eyes and ears open? I may get back to you about this, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re checking into it, sir. And it just may be that the authorities need to know, too, if the little girl’s in harm’s way.”
“It may come to that,” he agreed. “I hope it won’t have to. But thanks so much for your help.”
He put down the phone and sat for some time with his eyes closed. He pictured Andrea Padgett, huddling in a far corner of her room, crying quietly as her mother was being bombarded with verbal and physical abuse. How long could it be until Andi herself was the recipient of such treatment—from her out-of-control father, or even, possibly, from a mistreated and overwrought mother? He knew these things were sometimes passed along.
He stood and went into the kitchen, where mouth-watering smells were emanating from the oven and stovetop. His stomach reminded him, forcefully, that he hadn’t fed it in some time—but he knew he couldn’t eat. Not yet.
“Trish? babe, how would you like to put all this on hold, and take the Andi and the children away for a while? A park, a meal, a movie—whatever—to give me time to talk to Jack before he just grabs Andi and takes off. Could you do that?”
She switched off the stove and looked at her watch. “He’s due here in less than an hour,” she told him. “About five-thirty. But, Jim—I don’t think you ought to be alone when you confront him. He’s mean. Well, I guess that’s obvious.”
“I won’t be alone.” He smiled at her, and she understood.
She took a deep breath. “Okay,” she replied and reached to kiss his cheek. “You be careful, though. Jamie’s having a sleep- over at Dennis’s house, and Tiff’s tending the Arnaud kids till about eleven. What shall I do, timewise?”
“Give us at least until six-thirty or seven. Take the cell phone and call here anytime after that, and I’ll tell you what to do about taking Andi home or bringing her back here for the night. I just don’t know how things are going to play out.”
“I hope Jack doesn’t come out tracking down my car to get her.”
“I don’t think he will. If necessary, I’ll tell him you took the kids down to the zoo at Birmingham. Um—you are considering the zoo, aren’t you?” He prompted, grinning.
“Oh, absolutely. Either that or the new animated movie at the mall theaters. I’m not sure which, so neither are you.”
“Right. I’m not. Thanks, babe. Will dinner be ruined?”
&nbs
p; “No, actually it’s about done. I’ll just put it away for later.”
“You’re the best.”
* * *
When he was alone in the house, it seemed strangely quiet, and he thought how seldom he found himself alone there. Much as he valued his privacy and quiet times, he would hate being alone too much, especially here at home, where he was accustomed to the cheerful noise of three active youngsters and an almost equally active wife. He thought of his sister-in-law, Meredith, wandering around her large and lavish home by herself, and was glad, again, that there were apparently some hopeful signs of awakening in her work-bound husband. Then he thought of Jack Padgett. Was being alone in his new home what he feared most? If so, by binding his wife and daughter so smotheringly close to him, wasn’t he putting himself in jeopardy of the ultimate loneliness of divorce?
He knelt beside his bed and gave himself up again to a time of prayer and meditation.
“This is it, Father,” he prayed. “Be with me as I counsel with thy son Jack Padgett. Be with him, I ask thee, and soften his heart toward his wife and child—and toward me. Help him to see me as his friend, and help me to be his friend, in truth. Bless me with boldness, as it may be required, and with wisdom. And Lord, please grant me courage, because I confess I’m afraid, right now. Bless us both to hold our tempers.”
When Jack’s truck turned into the driveway, the bishop was walking around the yard, admiring Trish’s flowers, deadheading a few spent roses she had missed. The sun was still high in the sky, but the trees in his and Mrs. Hestelle Pierce’s backyards made those areas oases of deep shade. He moved to greet Jack Padgett.
A Fresh Start in Fairhaven Page 23
