by Gary Parker
Now, everyone else still standing, Connie and Daniel and Katie bowed their heads and closed their eyes and let the sounds of the song roll over them.
“When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun, We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise, than when we’ve first begun . . . ”
As the music subsided, the congregation fell quiet, but no one sat down. A scattering of sniffles broke the hush, but nothing else. Gently, so as not to break the whisper of the Spirit, Reverend Wallace lifted his gnarled right hand into the air and began to pray.
“Precious Lord Jesus, we feel your presence in a powerful way today. We feel you as you speak to our hearts, as you nurture our souls, as you reach down and touch us on the spots that hurt. We praise your name today, Lord Jesus, for the love you give us for one another. We couldn’t live without that love. Life would be barren without that love, barren as a tree without branches, a day without light, a river without water. Thank you for your love and for giving us the power to share your love with others.
“We pray for each other today, especially for Connie and Katie and Daniel. Continue to dispense holy grace upon their lives. Continue to walk with them through their valleys. Continue to open their eyes to see what you want them to see. Continue to manifest your goodness in big and small ways.
“As we worship in this hour, now, let us never forget your presence. Yes, you are with us always, even to the end of the age. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
With one voice, the congregation said “Amen” and Connie opened her eyes. As she did, she stared straight ahead, her vision blurred for several seconds by the tears that had just begun to recede. Wiping away the last of the tears, her hand trembling, she leaned forward and pulled a book from the hymnal rack. A black book. Jack’s black book, the one they had assumed lost on the night of his untimely death. Sitting right there in front of her, just beside a hymnal.
CHAPTER
19
It took every ounce of self-control Connie possessed to pay attention to the remainder of the worship. After pulling the black notebook from the pew rack and placing it in her lap, she desperately wanted to open it. But, knowing she couldn’t read it in church, she held back. Through the next hour and fifteen minutes, she worked hard to stay focused. As the singing, praying, and preaching unfolded, she kept her eyes straight ahead, not daring to look down. If she looked down once, she feared she would never look back up. More than anything, she wanted to open the notebook and read it, but she realized if she did, she would lose all connection to the events around her.
Sitting rigidly, she clutched the black book like a drowning woman straddling a life vest in the middle of the ocean. To her dismay, Reverend Wallace, apparently inspired by the outpouring of the Spirit brought on by her return to church, preached longer than usual, stretching his normal thirty-minute sermon to forty-five.
Connie fought hard to listen but for the most part failed.
Over and over again, she squeezed the book in her lap, wondering how it came to be there. Had Jack lost it? Left it there by accident?
For a moment, she wondered why no one had found it, but then the answer came to her: No one had sat there since Jack’s death. And the custodian could have easily overlooked it during the cleaning of the church.
As Reverend Wallace continued to preach, she tried to recall the last time she saw the notebook, but she couldn’t. Jack kept it with him all the time, so she became accustomed to seeing it whenever she saw him. On the passenger seat of his truck, on his cluttered desk at the store, at home on his nightstand. He scribbled in it constantly, working on the story he hoped to get published someday. The idea that he mistakenly left it made no sense.
If not, though, then what? He left it deliberately? That had to be it. Jack left the notebook for her. Without reading a single word, she came to that conclusion. Only Jack would have thought of it—leave his notebook in their pew where she would find it. Yes, he probably assumed she would come back to church sooner to find it, but at the moment that didn’t matter.
She had found it. The day she returned to church, there it appeared.
With a rueful smile, Connie understood the message. A good preacher could make a heck of a sermon from the illustration. When in church, God blesses you in unexpected ways. She squeezed her blessing. Jack’s novel. The novel he refused to let her see until he finished it. Now, though she didn’t have him any longer, she did have his book. What a treasure!
As Reverend Wallace finished preaching and the ushers moved through the aisles to receive the offering, Connie’s mind drifted even further. Why did Jack leave the book? And when?
The ushers moved toward the altar with the offering plates.
A disturbing possibility pushed through Connie’s head. Why did Jack leave the notebook? Only one reason she could imagine: He suspected something might happen to him. The book survived as his way to speak to her one more time.
Already drained of tears, she didn’t get emotional at the thought. While he lived, Jack wouldn’t let her read his novel.
Now that he had died, she would get the chance.
The congregation stood as Reverend Wallace called on an elder to lead in a closing prayer. Connie took a deep breath and rose to her feet. Closing her eyes, she wondered about the novel.
Was it a love story? A fantasy saga? A mystery? She didn’t know.
Jack never told her, and after years of asking, she gave up.
Usually one of the last to leave church, Connie found herself tense and impatient to go as the prayer ended. But the people crowded around her, and she found herself shaking hands and hugging necks. She appreciated their enthusiastic welcome home, but she could barely stand it. Time seemed to drag, a turtle crossing a road, but gradually the crowd around her thinned and disappeared. Only Tick, Tess, and Reverend Wallace remained with her and Daniel and Katie.
Tess wrapped an arm around Connie. “You look tired,” she said. “How about letting me take Daniel and Katie while you go home for a rest? I’ll feed the kids, then you come eat after your nap.”
Connie’s eyes lit up. At times like this, she wanted to kiss Tess. She could go home and read Jack’s book without having to make explanations to the children. Though she wanted them to read it soon, she appreciated the chance to go through it by herself first.
“That sounds wonderful,” she said. “I’ll bring some clothes for the kids when I come. We can all change and spend the afternoon together.”
“Did you fix banana pudding?” Daniel asked Tess, his blue eyes eager.
“Not yet, but for you, I’ll see what I can do.”
Tess turned to Reverend Wallace. “You and Abby will join us, won’t you?”
Reverend Wallace scanned the sanctuary for his wife. “I don’t see Abby, but I think I can talk her into banana pudding.”
Tick touched Tess on the elbow. “I’ll get the car,” he said.
Within seconds, Tess had hustled the kids out the door, and Reverend Wallace had walked away to find his wife. Eager to get home, Connie hustled to her van. Twenty minutes later she turned into her driveway and hopped out. The notebook remained in her hands, clutched to her stomach. For a moment, she wondered where to go to do her reading. It didn’t take long to decide: the back deck overlooking the river.
Without going inside, Connie circled the corner of the house and stepped onto the deck. Easing into her rocker, she took a long breath and stared out across the Missouri. A hint of breeze rippled across her face, and a hickory tree as tall as a telephone pole picked it up and danced its leaves with it. A bird chirped to her right and the sun, just past straight up, fell through the tree and splashed on Connie’s face. Connie stared at the river Jack loved so much. He often said the river was like a human life—always changing and always heading some-where. She had no doubt she was changing, but she did wonder where she was heading.
She held up the book, then stroked it with her fingers.
<
br /> Jack’s novel, written in longhand. She hoped he had finished it.
If so, she would do everything she could to place it in the hands of a publisher. She sucked in a deep breath and opened the book.
Her eyes dropped to the first words on the first page, instantly recognizing Jack’s neat, tiny handwriting. She read the first words. Her heart skipped a beat. The words weren’t the first words to a novel. Instead, they were addressed to her.
“My lovely Sunset—”
Connie gulped and bit her lip. She read faster.
If you find this, then it means something has happened to me. I might not be alive. I simply don’t know. If I’m not, please, please know I’m with the Lord. I hope I live to grow old with you, to see your wonderful auburn hair turn gray, to sit in a rocker by the fire in the winter, but I know that might not happen. I might not get to see Daniel go on his first date or walk Katie down the aisle on her wedding day. I might not teach either of them to drive or wrestle with my grandchildren on the floor. If I don’t get to do those things, then grieve for me, but not forever. Let God provide and move forward with life.
I’m leaving this notebook where you or Daniel or Katie should find it. No one but our family has sat here for years and if I’m with the Lord and unable to take my regular spot in this pew, I expect no one will sit here at least for a few weeks. So, you or the kids should find this. That’s the way I plan it anyway.
As you read this, please know I can’t tell you everything I want to say here. Two reasons for that: 1) I don’t have but a few minutes before I have to go. 2) There is the possibility that someone other than you or one of the kids will find this. If I write everything here and this notebook somehow falls into the wrong hands, people I care about could get terribly hurt. So, I have to code this, speak in terms only you will understand.
When you finish this and do what I tell you, then you’ll understand. So, now, here’s what you need to do.
Do you remember the birthday present you three gave me for my fortieth? Along with the black balloons and black underwear? Well, find that birthday present. When you find it, examine it closely. It will give you the information you need to find out what happened to me. As you follow what you find there, remember this, mark it down—appearances can deceive. As the Scripture says, wolves do sometimes clothe themselves in sheep’s clothing.
I wish I could make it all plainer. But follow what you find and I think you’ll discover why I can’t say more. For now, I ask you to stay away from the police. You’ll know the reason soon enough. Follow the gift first, then go to the authorities if you need. No one else knows about this gift, so I know you’ll be safe for now.
Listen, I have to end this. I could write all night. I have so much I want to say to you and my wonderful kids. You know I lost my parents when I was ten. From that day on, I felt incomplete. But then you came along and filled in the blank spaces in my soul. Then Daniel and Katie put the cherry on the ice cream. I never felt alone again. God gave you three to me and I’ll treasure you forever. Now, go. Go and trust the goodness of God. Go and trust the grace of God. Go and trust the promise of heaven God gave us. As you go, remember this—“Now abide faith, hope, and love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” Love endures forever.
I love you,
Jack
P.S. I’ll look forward to the day when we can share a bowl of ice cream and you can tell me what you think of my book.
The note ended. Distracted, Connie ignored the pages of the novel behind the letter. Those could wait.
Her heart thumping wildly, she set the book down and slumped forward, as still as death itself. Beyond the deck, the river seemed to slow, too, its current languishing as if in sympathy with Connie. Overhead the bird stopped chirping, and the breeze dropped to nothing. Connie continued to sit still for several minutes. But, even in her stillness, her mind rushed ahead.
After her trip to Las Vegas, she had pledged to leave Jack’s death in the grave so she could begin the process of moving ahead with her life. But now, from beyond the grave, Jack beckoned her. He wanted her to know the truth. That fit him exactly. Even in death, he wanted to do the right thing.
She raised up and stared at the notebook. Then she smiled and shook her head side to side. Wonderful, honest, precious Jack. The man of her dreams. The father of her children. The joy of her life. What a place to leave his final clue. On the gift they gave him on his fortieth birthday. On a baseball.
The bird overhead chirped again. Connie remained still.
The river flowed in the distance. She bit her lip. She had to decide. Leave it all behind or take Jack’s final clue and see where it led?Clutching the notebook, she moved quickly to Jack’s closet shelf. There she jerked the box with his belongings off the shelf, then stepped out of the closet. Setting the box on her bed, she opened it and peered inside.
It took only a second to find the baseball. It lay on the bottom of the box, covered by a stack of papers and a number of other odds and ends. Connie lifted the ball out and held it up in the light. It looked like a simple ball—white, stitched, and stamped with the official signature of the president of the National League. Names written in odd squiggles and slashes decorated it, the autographs of the famous athletes who once played for the St. Louis Cardinals. She, Katie, and Daniel paid over three hundred dollars for it, far more than they could really afford.
Connie rolled the ball in her hands, not quite sure what she expected to see. She read a number of the names. Gibson . . .
McCarver . . . Flood. The signatures meant nothing to her. She smiled ruefully. With her ignorance of baseball, she wouldn’t know the difference between a Cardinal and a killer. But Jack would know about her ignorance. Which meant he wouldn’t simply leave a name. No, he would leave something for her to figure out, something no one else would fathom, something to test the logic he always admired in her.
She twirled the baseball over, looking for anything unusual. Perhaps a phone number? Someone to call who could explain all this? She didn’t see a number. She held the ball closer to her face, examining it from every angle. In the center of the ball, under the logo of the National League, she spotted it—a circle the size of a small button drawn in black ink. It almost disappeared in the swirl of Orlando Cepeda’s signature, but once she isolated it, she had no doubt—the circle didn’t fit. It stood out as plain as a woman in a bikini at a church social. Inside the circle, she saw three tiny letters, MHS, and two little numbers, 75.
Her mind plowing through the possibilities, she tried to figure it out. MHS. Initials? Maybe so, but for whom? She mentally ran through a check list of her friends. No close friends whose name began with an “M.”
The baseball still in her hand, she searched through the rest of the box’s contents. Maybe Jack left something else in here?
She scanned through the papers as quickly as she could but found nothing.
For a second, she paused and let herself think. Then, she suddenly turned, ran to the telephone in the den, and flipped open an address book lying beside it. Jack kept a long list of his most called numbers there. She surveyed the list but came up empty again.
Unable to figure out the initials, she focused on the number: 75. What did it mean? An age? She knew some older people but couldn’t see how any of them related to this. If not age, then what? An address? But Jack would know the number by itself wouldn’t give her enough to find someone.
If not an age or an address, what else? She stared at the number again: 75 . . . 75 . . . A safety deposit box! No, she had already checked hers in Jefferson City and Jack hadn’t opened one in St. Louis. If he had opened one at some other bank, he would have given her more direction. 75? . . . 75?
She held the baseball close to her eyes. Just beneath the letters MHS she saw a slight smudge, a touch of ink right at the front of the number. It looked like an accidental thing at first, but as she inspected it more closely, she realized it was an apostrophe. The 75 became a ’75, an a
bbreviation for 1975. The number was a date! 1975.
Now, what happened in 1975? She thought back quickly, running the years through her head. She lived in Ft. Leonard Wood in 1975, the year before her mom and dad divorced, and she moved north to go to school at Lincoln. Jack lived in Miller.
She was a junior in high school, still wearing big black glasses and shy as a deer in headlights. Jack was playing second base on the Miller High baseball team, a tough but tiny spray hitter who turned a quick double play.
Connie smiled as she thought of the baseball lingo. She didn’t know what it meant, but Jack had described himself to Daniel that way time and time again. 1975 . . . 1975. What happened in 1975? After Watergate and Vietnam. Ford in the White House. Inflation high. She at Ft. Leonard Wood, Jack at Miller.
Miller High School . . . 1975. Jack the senior second baseman. Miller High School. MHS! Instantly, she knew. Miller High School, 1975! Something happened at Miller High School in 1975. But what?
She ransacked her brain, trying to remember. What had Jack told her about his high school years? She automatically answered the question. Nothing. Though married to him for years, he kept his past very much to himself.
Connie thought of his closet again. So sparse, almost empty. A suitcase full of belongings. All her married life, she had thought it a reflection of Jack’s simple needs, his lack of concern about material possessions. But now, she wondered. Did he keep himself free from possessions because he had few wants or because he didn’t want to get attached to anything he might have to leave behind in an emergency? She didn’t know and maybe never would.
Stumped, Connie walked away from the telephone and stepped toward the den, the baseball in her hand. The only thing she had from Jack’s high school days was his yearbook and his ring. She had examined the ring only a few days ago and found nothing significant. That left the yearbook.
