The Godsend of River Grove

by Rob Summers



  The Godsend of River Grove

  Book 1 of the Hila Grant Series

  By Rob Summers

  Copyright 2001 by Rob Summers

  Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE, Copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by the Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

  No actual persons are represented in this book.

  Table of Contents

  Part 1 The Insider

  Chapter 1 Monopoly

  Chapter 2 Crafts

  Chapter 3 Skits

  Chapter 4 The Singles Group

  Chapter 5 The Bullet

  Chapter 6 The Church Picnic

  Chapter 7 Nothing is Obtained

  Chapter 8 Frozen in Place

  Chapter 9 The Vote

  Part 2 The Mystery of Evil

  Chapter 10 A Severely Troubled Person

  Chapter 11 The Little Church of the Rock

  Chapter 12 The Golden Goats

  Chapter 13 Worse and Worse

  Chapter 14 Doing Nonsense

  Chapter 15 The Deeper Things

  Chapter 16 A Great Attitude

  Other Titles by Rob Summers

  About Rob Summers

  Connect with Rob Summers

  Part I The Insider

  Chapter 1 Monopoly

  “You were a strange child,” Anna Ellen said as she took the casserole leftovers from the refrigerator. She placed the covered bowl on the kitchen table, smoked glass against white tabletop. “Quiet. Happy with everything and everyone. What did you want besides a book? Jen and Billy pestered me for attention, or for money, but—” She opened the door of the microwave and turned back to the table. “—all that changed when you went to college.”

  Mentally, Hila supplied the unexpressed thought; that is, that she had caused her mother little anxiety until the time she had come home on holiday from her college in Indianapolis, claiming to have found Jesus. This had been a puzzle for her parents, who had been quite sure that she had been a born again Christian since the age of seven. Apparently college Christianity was different? Very different, apparently, for since then their pliable, easy-going Hila had been unable to see eye to eye with her mother on a number of subjects. Hila’s steady habits of Bible study and prayer, her abandonment of make-up, and her criticisms of other Christians had disturbed their relationship. This edge to her character had now lasted nine years.

  Anna Ellen put the casserole in the microwave and set the timer. “And you’d leave your book so easily to come help me in the kitchen.”

  Hila placed this statement as referring again to her childhood. She was used to such adjustments when listening to her mother and made them effortlessly.

  “I knew the book would always be there when I got back,” she answered.

  “Dishwashing, baking, cleaning up,” Anna Ellen continued without attention. “Do you remember how we used to sing together while washing dishes?” She moved lazily about the room, collecting plates and glasses from cabinets. “But you never talked much, and you were all the pleasanter for it. So pretty. The compliments people gave you every day! It’s a wonder it didn’t make you vain.”

  “It did.”

  “Nonsense. Would you get the salt and pepper shakers there from behind you and put them on the table? Thank you. But then the boys started calling.”

  Here it comes, thought Hila.

  “Calling and coming to the door. You were not over particular about who you dated, which is what I call a virtue. It doesn’t do to be over particular. You never know what you’ll pass up—”

  “You were not over-particular with Dad,” Hila put in casually.

  Anna Ellen, who was turned away, did not see her daughter’s small, devilish smile. She paused, for she had been on the verge of saying, ‘I was not over-particular with your father, and no one ever said I did poorly.’ Hila had a disconcerting habit of anticipating her this way.

  “No, I wasn’t—not with your father—and—we’ve done very well.” She laid out the plates and glasses, four settings. The chipped plate she placed before her own chair. “No one would say we’ve done badly.”

  “Of course not, Mom.”

  “But where’s that little girl?” Anna Ellen patted Hila’s shoulder while rounding the table. “What happened to that little girl who wanted to please everybody?”

  “She got over-particular, Mom. And no, I will not go out with Richard Ozark.”

  Anna Ellen made a sour face as she laid out silverware on the counter. “You have nothing to do while you’re here,” she said.

  “Job hunting, Mom, and taking care of—”

  “And you so beautiful!”

  “—taking care of Eddie.”

  “You should bring him over here.”

  “Cora wants me with him at her place, though.”

  Anna Ellen went back to the refrigerator and took out celery. “What I mean is you might listen to experience. You didn’t used to argue with me.”

  Hila let this pass. “So I do have job hunting to do. I have in mind applying for Mary Kirtle’s job at church.”

  “Richard Ozark goes to the church.”

  “She’s retiring you know, and those part time hours would just suit me while I’m taking care of Eddie.”

  “As many boyfriends as you used to have,” Anna Ellen said, shaking her head. “Where did they all go? And you with hair like an angel.” She stroked her daughter’s light blonde hair while passing her on the way to the knife rack.

  Hila had a ready supply of boyfriend material in Indianapolis, but she understood that this discussion was proceeding only on Anna Ellen’s present definition of boyfriend: someone about to propose marriage—and be accepted.

  “If only I had exercised forethought,” Hila said. “If only I had kept back a few boyfriends against a needful hour.”

  Anna Ellen did not acknowledge the teasing. “You’ll wish you’d listened to me.”

  The exterior door rattled and Hila’s father entered the kitchen, his broad forehead sweaty from the late August heat. He emitted an elaborate sigh of contentment due to the air conditioning. “Hila, you brighten my day.”

  “You mine too, Dad.”

  “You going to take care of Eddie?”

  “Sure am.”

  “Going to find a husband around here?”

  “Sure am not.”

  “Um.” Len Grant cast one anxious glance toward Anna Ellen but sat down smiling. “Let’s all play a game tonight or watch a video. You think you can get your brother to join us?”

  “I’ll ask him.” She patted her father’s broad arm, which seemed nearly as big around as her body. “Got a carrot for me?”

  “Hey, what for? You playing bunny rabbit with me?”

  “Nee-mee-nee-mee-nee-mee-nee,” she agreed in falsetto and twitched her nose.

  “Here you are,” he said, handing her the imaginary carrot, “but I don’t know how a bunny slipped in here.”

  An hour later the Grants were in the family room of their two-story house, gathered around a monopoly board on a card table, and well into a discussion of church politics. Hila’s younger brother Bill was speaking.

  “No, no, it’s just a reasonable business decision,” he said, clutching the dice in his hand. “Old Ollie used to make River Grove Community Church hum, had all the strings in his hands.” He threw the dice and moved the little race car eight spaces to St. Charles Place. “I own that. You know, Sunday morning attendance is down from 500 to about 320. Something has to be done quick. Bring on the guru.”

  “I don’t know how you would know about it,” Anna Ellen said, meani
ng that Bill never attended church.

  “I keep in touch,” he said. “Your turn.”

  “He doesn’t mean it,” Hila said. “Bill can’t stand Oliver Fulborne. He just means that as a purely practical matter and if all you’re thinking about is numbers and dollars—”

  “Oh, no,” Bill broke in cheerily. “It’s the best spiritually too.” He lowered his voice and said mock-somberly, “God has not been pleased with that box, that so-called contribution box that—”

  “I wish I’d never seen it,” Len said. “Dear, it’s your turn. Somebody explain to me how people can get so upset over whether we take up the offering with plates or use a box at the back of the sanctuary.”

  “It doesn’t feel right not to pass the plates,” Anna Ellen said. “Something is missing.”

  “But Oliver Fulborne! What are we discussing here?” said Hila. “I don’t see that it should even be put to a vote.” She found the other three staring at her because she had spoken with unusual fervor. “I mean two years ago he was quite properly thrown out for heresy and for harassing Pamela Oker and—and that’s that.”

  “Small matters, trivial,” Bill said. “Fulborne’s the man of the hour.”

  “That’s not funny, cut it out,” she said. “Mom, it’s your turn.”

  Anna Ellen’s face was clouded. “I never did understand why he was voted out. Maybe we were a bit too quick about it. He never really admitted anything, did he?”

  The others all tried to answer this at once, but Len’s voice prevailed. “Nobody will talk about what happened. The elders and Pastor Wurz came out of their meeting and announced that Fulborne wasn’t recommended to be an elder anymore, and that was all.”

  “No light,” Hila said with quiet intensity, “no ventilation. That’s not healthy.”

  “But remember, honey, that they can’t tell us just anything that goes on in those meetings. Some things are only discussed at all with the understanding that it’s in confidence.”

  Hila briefly compressed her lips. “Do you really picture it that way, Daddy? Al Fontaine says to Ollie, ‘What’s this about you pawing little Pammy Oker? And what about these diary entries where you sound like a heretic?’ And Ollie says, ‘I’ll answer your questions, gentlemen, if it goes no farther than here.’ And they agree! Is that what happened?”

  “Well, of course I don’t know, I wasn’t there. But something like that.”

  Anna Ellen finally threw the dice and moved her thimble. “Here, I owe you twenty-three dollars, Hila. But how did the board—? I mean, I remember voting.”

  “The following Sunday the congregation voted to go along with it,” Hila said. “But Ollie said that was wrong because, between the elders’ recommendation and the congregation’s vote, he had announced that he was voluntarily stepping down. The elders had held the congregational vote anyway because they didn’t want to take sole responsibility for such a big decision. So now Ollie says he was never actually voted out, and the elders say that—well, their opinion is divided. Some are ready to agree with him. That’s what Cora tells me.”

  Bill pumped a fist in the air and yelled, “Gu-ru! Gu-ru!”

  “Shut up, Bill. Cora tells me that, and she says Ollie will get back in.”

  Len made a dismissive sound, as if to say, ‘What would your cousin know?’

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Well, I—actually, I think he might.” Len bit his lip and tried to smile. “Times being what they are.”

  “But you won’t vote for him?”

  Len considered as if it were a fresh question. “I don’t know. Maybe if he—”

  “Dad!”

  “What?”

  Hila looked at the faces around the table, all three now more interested in her odd excitement than in anything Oliver Fulborne had done or would do. “Oliver Fulborne is a man who doesn’t even understand the gospel. He’s a heretic. Mom?”

  Anna Ellen stopped fiddling with her money. “I don’t know, sweetie. The church needs something. I can’t believe he’s a heretic.”

  Hila made her last statement on the subject hopelessly. “Heresy is not something you have to wonder about. You just listen to what he says.” She pushed the dice to her father. “Go ahead, Dad. Maybe we should change the subject.”

  They did.

  Later that evening Hila went to Bill’s room and found him seated at that one of his two desks that did not have the computer on it. A large scrapbook was open in front of him. As she came up behind him, he turned in his chair with a conspiratorial grin, and they looked at the open pages awash in the yellow light of the desk lamp. Before them was a hand drawn map.

  “What has Sir Miff been up to?” she asked.

  “Right where we left him.” He pointed to an area of the map filled in with dozens of little tree drawings. “He’s still Gorbnal’s prisoner in the Forest of Drab. Amelia is over here near the bridge.”

  Since they had been nine and ten, respectively, Bill and Hila had been creating their private fantasy world. It included maps, animals, plants, history, architecture, constellations, and some lively and rather unlikely story lines. Some of their characters were human, others talking animals. Sir Miff was a valorous, talking mouse and a favorite.

  “Things don’t seem to happen in Bafilia when I’m not here,” Hila said. “Miff was in jail last Christmas.”

  “Just waiting for you. It’s no fun when you’re not here.”

  Bill had a spiral bound notebook handy, and opening it, began to read from its handwritten pages. They had left Sir Miff in a complex and nearly hopeless situation which required Hila’s full attention in review. However, within a half hour the brother and sister had brought Amelia—Sir Miff’s intended—to an aged hermit, and not just any hermit, a hermit with Connections. Then, by the use of a magic cauldron the old man had sent urgent messages to Sir Bullson, Sir Alfonzo, and the Lord Scarvell; all friends of Sir Miff. Perhaps they would arrive in time to save the mouse from the lowborn Gorbnal’s infamous boiling oil.

  By this time Hila was yawning. It was enough for one evening.

  “You’re going over to Cora’s tomorrow?” he asked her.

  “Yes. I want to get settled in there and start taking care of Eddie. Cora’s flight is tomorrow morning. But I’ll be coming around to see you, or you can come over there.”

  “Good.” He slid the notebook into a drawer. “We can get a lot done this summer.”

  “Yes, we can.” Hila’s smile was genuine. She really liked Bafilia, which was the name of their make believe world, and did not tire of the adventures. It was only that it meant so much more to Bill than to her. His life was narrow. At eighteen he had dropped out of Viola University after a nervous breakdown. He had never gone back to college, and the few jobs he had held had been part-time and brief. It was now four years since he had held a job at all, and he had achieved disability status a few months previously. At the age of twenty-seven, he filled his time with reading, television, the internet, and walks about town; and he visited a psychiatrist once a week.

  “It’ll be almost like the old days,” he said, meaning their childhood. “I’m really glad you came back. You can do well here, Hi. Plenty of opportunities in Viola. Hey, and don’t let Ollie Fulborne get you down.”

  “It’s not just him,” she said, standing up from the chair she had pulled near his desk. “It’s the whole church, including Mom and Dad.”

  “It’s every church,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Bill was an atheist.

  “Not every. It didn’t feel so stifling in Indianapolis at Norton Woods Chapel. When I come back here, Bill, and I interact with the River Grove people, it’s like entering some gloomy, hopeless fantasyland. Rivergrovia.”

  “And Lady Hila gets clapped in prison?”

  “Something like that.” She walked about the room, looking at the rock star posters on the walls.
“But I’m coming from outside, you see. It all looks sensible to Mom and Dad from the inside. Sure, why not vote in a perverted, heretical elder? You hear how they rationalize it. Why, if he hasn’t admitted anything, how could it be true? And anyway, they figure things won’t be any worse than when he used to be on the board for decades. It’s good enough if you don’t have anything better to compare it to. How can I wake them up? How can I convince them that there’s a world outside River Grove Community?”

  “Ha, you can’t!” Bill was happy with this answer. “You can’t even get them to tell you where the river is or the grove.” (Neither could be found in the vicinity of the church building.) “You dropped in like Alice in Wonderland, and you’re just going to have to put up with the nonsense.”

  “Well, I wish it was Wonderland instead,” she said unhappily, “or Bafilia.”

  “Hmm.” Bill looked thoughtful. “Hey, now. We can’t get you into Wonderland, but we could get you into Bafilia. Why not? We rule that world, don’t we? All we’d have to do is write you in.” He swiveled in his chair and looked at the map. “We have you show up—poof! —right by Lady Amelia in Drab Forest. She can handle it. Wizards and gremlins are always popping in on her like that, anyway. Then you two could keep each other company until Bullson and Alfonzo and Scarvell arrive.”

  Hila shook her head. “They wouldn’t believe me if I were to tell them I’ve come from another world, the real world, and that theirs is all just paper.”

  “Well, you don’t want to tell them that.”

  “I—no, of course I don’t want to tell them that. I guess I’m comparing it in my mind with River Grove. I want the congregation to see that their church is mostly cardboard and paste. They all put such work and energy into it and agree to call it God’s House, and—the Christian reality of it isn’t much more substantial than—” She gestured toward the map of Bafilia.

  “I think Bafilia is more substantial,” Bill said. “But if you’re going to start talking about legalism and grace again, I’m going to bed.”

  “No, I’ll spare you the legalism and grace speech tonight. Good night, Bill.”

  Hila went to her room, got ready for bed, and lay awake thinking about legalism and grace. When forced to, Bill could see the difference, but as an unbeliever was uninterested. Her parents, who called themselves Christians, could not see it at all. But Hila, normally so calm and sunny, could become consumed with this theological subject. She lay looking at the blind, which was backlit by a neighbor’s yard light, and thought of her childhood, of lying in the same bed in the same room and looking at the same window at night. Then she had been rather happy but at the same time had been in spiritual darkness. She had wanted to be good, to do good things, so as to please her parents and, if she had happened to think of Him, God too. Now she knew better. Either Christians become Christians by the complete and unmixed grace of God, or else by working at it, by keeping religious commandments. The Bible said it was all grace. Oliver Fulborne gave lip service to grace—well, sometimes—but his standard teaching was full of warnings to keep one’s record clean, to work hard at church programs, to keep up one’s reputation. Especially to work hard at church programs. The word ‘relax’ was not in Ollie’s vocabulary. Christ forgives your sins, true, but you had best do some work so as not to have anything serious to confess and be forgiven about. For who would want to just squeak by into heaven, arriving covered with shame? As for sins other than failing to work at the programs, they were little heeded and perhaps scarcely required absolution.

  With all her heart and soul, she believed in the grace of God. She was in love with grace, or rather with God, for that was the same thing. And though she had long since despaired of winning over the majority of church goers of her acquaintance to this enthusiasm, she nevertheless could hope for a River Grove Church that would allow others the possibility at least of appreciating grace. If Fulborne would be on the board again, dominating the congregation as he had done before, she feared that at River Grove the light of the gospel would go out completely.