Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors

by David O. Dyer, Sr.

  They were asking my question one hundred years ago, Sandra realized. She read the remainder of the chapter eagerly; anxious to find the lady preacher's answer, but when she reached the sermon's conclusion, her hope turned to anger.

  ...brothers and sisters, whom I love as those for whom my Lord has died, believe me, I know what this great blessedness is; and because I know it, I want you to have it too. I am poor, like you: I have to get my living with my hands; but no lord nor lady can be so happy as me, if they haven't got the love of God in their souls. Think what it is—not to hate anything but sin; to be full of love to every creature; to be frightened at nothing; to be sure that all things will turn to good; not to mind pain, because it is our Father's will; to know that nothing—no, not if the earth was to be burnt up, or the waters come and drown us—nothing could part us from God who loves us, and who fills our souls with peace and joy, because we are sure that whatever he wills is holy, just, and good.

  Sandra banged the covers of the book together, quickly stood and slammed the volume down on the library table. “That's a copout, lady preacher,” she shouted, knowing there was no one to hear her. “God's will, indeed. If God is God, she does not cause bad things to happen to good people, or good things to happen to bad people."

  No longer in the mood to read, and certainly not ready to be creative at the computer keyboard, she gathered up the empty water jugs and rode the golf cart to what she now regarded as her spring. She filled the jugs, secured them on the back of the cart, eased back down the bank and sat cross-legged beside the bubbling water.

  “God,” she began. “I don't know much about praying. I've heard some prayers in church where people tell you what you ought to be doing, or ask you to heal the terminally ill, or ask for blessings—whatever they are. Somehow, I don't think that is praying. Mack wants me to write down what I believe about you, but I don't know what I believe. Tim is as messed up as everybody else. He says you are not Santa Claus, but he turns right around and says he believes in miracles. The lady preacher in the book says whatever happens is okay because its your will. If you do care about people, Adam Bede was closer to the truth than anyone else. Right now, there are homeless people in Charlotte praying for food and shelter, but they'll go to sleep hungry tonight in some doorway or cardboard box. Yet, something deep inside of me wants to believe in Santa Claus—in miracles. If you do intervene sometimes in people's lives, how do you choose who you will help and who you will deny? There are people around the world who are probably right now praying for relief from major tragedy in their lives, and here am I, wanting to ask you to let it snow on Christmas Eve. If you won't grant them relief from tremendous agony, how can I hope you will grant my selfish request? And yet, I wish I could believe in a personal God who cares about me."

  She became aware of her bowed head and closed eyes. She opened her eyes and watched the water ripple in the spring's cradle. She thought about praying that if it snowed on Christmas Eve she would believe in a personal God and in miracles, but she discarded the idea, thinking it was probably not smart to try to bribe the Almighty. To end her prayer she knew she was supposed to say “amen,” but since she didn't know the meaning of the word she simply returned to the golf cart and miserably drove back to the house.

  * * * *

  On Wednesday morning, the mailman delivered Matt's letter to Loretta at her dad's home in Ohio. As she read it, the tears came. She read it a second and third time, then handed it to her father. Ten minutes later, with her father's blessing, she was on her way back to North Carolina. On the trip to Ohio, she knew long before she crossed the state line that she would eventually go back to him. She hadn't even unpacked her car. He is a bastard, she thought, but he's my bastard and I love him.

  She arrived at their rented house on Thursday about noon and took a quick shower. She put on her underwear, applied Matt's favorite cologne, worked on her hair and fretted that she needed a trim and a perm. After applying makeup she studied her appearance in the bathroom mirror and smiled mischievously. She took off her bra, slipped on a clean housedress that still hung in the closet, and headed for the hospital.

  She knew about his injuries. Masterson had called her at her dad's home with the news. She had no idea what the future might hold, but she felt guilty for having turned her back on Matt when he needed her the most.

  He was sleeping when she entered the hospital room. She closed the door and fumed briefly over the fact that there was no lock. She stood beside him, accepting the casts and bandages without repulsion. She unbuttoned her dress to the waist, leaned over and kissed him gently on his forehead. He opened his eyes and immediately recognized her breasts. He tried to find her face. He wanted to apologize, but she filled his mouth with her right nipple. She felt a long forgotten stirring deep inside as his good hand caressed her hair. She fed him the other breast while letting her right hand gently slide down his stomach, not knowing what she would find, but she found it. She lifted the sheet.

  “Loretta,” he began.

  “Hush,” she commanded as she bent over him and tossed the sheet over her shoulders.

  He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth and dug the back of his head into the pillow. His hand found the back of her knee, then her thigh. She regretted having worn the panties, but he slipped his hand inside and his fingers found the mark.

  A nurse entered the room, then quietly backed out, unseen.

  “You've never done that before,” he said when she again stood beside him, buttoning her dress.

  “Honey, you ain't seen nothing yet,” she smiled, drawing up a chair.

  “Loretta,” Matt said with pleading eyes, “I swear to God I will never do anything so stupid again."

  “I know you won't,” she grinned. “I'm going to keep you so exhausted you will never again have the energy to even think about another woman."

  * * * *

  Tim was in his study when Sandra returned with the spring water. She put away the jugs and, remembering the unmade bed, went upstairs and completed that daily chore. She intended to try writing again, but instead picked up the New Jerusalem Bible, which was on the bedside table. The pages fell open as she sat on the edge of the bed.

  She would tell herself many times in the days to come that it was purely coincidence, but her eyes focused on a single verse in the Gospel of Mark, the ninth chapter and the twenty-fourth verse. “'Everything is possible for one who has faith.’ At once the father of the boy cried out, ‘I have faith. Help my lack of faith!’”

  She reverently closed the book and her eyes. That's all I have to offer, God, she prayed. I have faith. Help my lack of faith. And if all things are truly possible, let it snow on Christmas Eve.

  That night, as she and Tim finished reading another chapter in the Gospel of John, Sandra asked, “Tim, why do people say ‘amen’ when they finish a prayer?"

  He laughed. “I used to think it meant ‘the end.’ I asked our preacher when I was a boy. He said it came from a Hebrew word that literally means ‘so be it.’”

  After getting Tim to sleep by scratching his head, she again prayed, I have faith. Help my lack of faith. And if all things are truly possible, let it snow on Christmas Eve. She ended the prayer, as she would for the rest of her life, not by saying ‘Amen’ but rather, So be it.

  * * * *

  On Sunday morning, during the singing of the invitation hymn, Tim and Sandra Dollar joined the Dot Baptist Church. Sandra explained to Mack that she was not coming under the watchcare of the church, but as a full member. She was careful not to mention the phrase “profession of faith in Jesus Christ.” Instead she said that she had the faith that Jesus accepted in Mark 9:24. Mack made a mental note to look up the reference and then inquired about the matter of baptism. Mack did not seem to be satisfied with Sandra's infant christening, but he told her that if the experience were meaningful to her, the church would accept it. He made another mental note to talk further with her about the concept of believer's baptism.

 
; After the congregation unanimously voted to accept the Dollars as new members, Mack asked everyone to sit down. He asked Mary Lou to join him at the front of the church and together they announced their wedding plans, much to the surprise and obvious great pleasure of the congregation. The wedding would take place in the chapel of the North Carolina Baptist Hospital in Winston-Salem on Saturday, November 22 at noon. A reception would follow and everyone was invited.

  After lunch, Tim and Sandra huddled for a couple of hours in the study, making careful plans for Monday's meeting of The Inner Circle. Sandra then resumed the writing of her novel and Tim started knocking out reports.

  * * * *

  The conference table in the study was carefully prepared when the members of The Inner Circle arrived. Tim sat at one end of the table, Sandra at the opposite end, Bobby and Carl Elliott were on one side while Vic and Susan sat on the other. The Dollars provided each participant an ashtray, a legal pad, a pen, a thick folder of reports, a meeting agenda, a glass of cold spring water and an empty mug. A fresh pot of coffee, filling the room with its special aroma, sat on a small table by the door.

  Tim wanted to be sure that the assembled group understood that Sandra was a full working partner, so, by design, Sandra opened the meeting.

  “Tim and I are convinced,” she began, “that this group is going to become a highly effective team. It is our purpose to make money for the Dollars,” she said with a slight grin but without apology. “The more effective you are at accomplishing that goal, the larger will be your share of the profit. In addition to your charges, Susan and Carl, and your salaries, Bobby and Vic, we will split with each of you an annual bonus of 5% of our net profit. Are there any questions?"

  There were none.

  “We feel that it will be in the best interest of all to have a staff meeting, like this one, weekly. If there are no objections, we will meet on Mondays at 9:00 a.m. Are there any questions now?"

  Again, there were none.

  “We have a lot of ground to cover. Tim and I have prepared an agenda for this meeting. You all have a copy."

  Amid the sound of shuffling papers, Tim took over.

  “The first item on the agenda I have labeled ‘Dot'. It refers to the various suggestions made at our town meeting. You have in your folders a complete record of that meeting and I expect you all to become very familiar with it. There are two items that need our attention this morning: the warehouse across from the church and the old hotel building. Bobby, do you know anything about the condition of these two buildings?"

  “I haven't been in either one for years,” Bobby replied.

  “Okay. The best I can tell from Pete's records, at one time the warehouse was used for storage, but currently should be empty.” Tim reached for a handful of keys and slid them across the table in Bobby's direction. “Bobby, I want you and Carl to check out both buildings to see if they are structurally sound and to come up with a reasonable estimate of the cost to bring them up to code."

  Both men nodded while writing on their legal pads.

  “You know that one of the suggestions at the town meeting would put the warehouse to public use. Later Tom Anthony suggested that the clinic might be located in the old hotel building along with some small businesses, offices and possibly efficiency apartments."

  “Tim,” said Susan Honneycutt. “I have been reviewing the insurance policies you have on the various buildings you own. You simply do not have adequate coverage for either fire or liability. You don't have insurance at all on either of these two buildings. I will try to have a full report on your insurance needs at our next meeting."

  Tim nodded, not happy that he was underinsured, but pleased that Susan was already working on it. Tim quickly touched on the remaining items on the agenda, making assignments as he went. The discussion of the final item went far beyond his expectations and caused the meeting to continue until noon.

  Carl Elliott threw things off course. “It ain't my money,” he began hesitantly, “and I like the idea of a golf course, small housing development, fishing lake, hiking trails and rental cabins. What you are doing is creating a recreational complex. If the money is available I would build two golf courses—maybe three, a driving range, two lighted par three courses, several practice greens and a centrally located club house. Of course you need plenty of parking too."

  “Do you play golf, Carl?” Sandra asked.

  “Black people do play golf, Mrs. Dollar. Ain't you ever heard of Tiger Woods?"

  Everybody laughed including Sandra, although she had no idea who Tiger Woods might be.

  “I think you are leaving out some fairly inexpensive attractions,” Bobby volunteered.

  “Like what, Bobby?” asked Tim.

  “Like a swimming pool, basketball courts, tennis courts, softball diamonds, maybe one of those exercise courses like they have in Charlotte."

  “There is a major item we need to keep in mind throughout our planning,” Sandra said. “Everything we build needs to be accessible to handicapped people. Tim and I have someone in mind to manage this part of our business, and he is confined to a wheel chair."

  “It's also the law,” added Susan.

  This conversation led to the necessity of additional investigations. They all agreed that a survey of the property and the employment of an architect were immediate needs.

  Vic had said very little up to this point, feeling that he was the new kid on the block. “I know this meeting has run longer than expected, but I have an idea I want to put on the table."

  “The floor is yours,” Tim invited.

  “I've been sitting here creating a mental picture of what this complex is going to look like. There is one more venture that would fit in nicely, a conference center."

  “Pardon my stupidity, Vic, but what is a conference center?” Sandra asked.

  “It's like a fancy hotel, Mrs. Dollar, with all the recreational outlets we are talking about. All we would need to add is a fancy building with extremely nice rental suits, large tastefully furnished conference rooms and a fabulous dining room. Businesses—not necessarily large businesses—rent conference centers for executive retreats and planning sessions."

  Tim let his skepticism show by saying, “We'll add your idea to the list of possibilities, Vic. Perhaps that is something we can add later."

  Vic felt he was in trouble. “I know a man,” he said, “who put the Graylyn International Conference Center at Wake Forest University on the map. He's retired now, but stays busy doing consulting work. He doesn't come cheap, but I think a study and recommendation from him would be money well spent."

  “Add that to your list of responsibilities,” Sandra said, aware that Tim was about to pass over a potentially lucrative source of income.

  “I'm getting hungry,” Tim observed. “There's just one more thing. I want all of you to go by Microchip World in Charlotte one day this week. Ask for a salesman named Sean. One of these days I'm going to find out what that boy's last name is. Anyway, he has a complete computer setup for each of you that is exactly like the ones Sandy and I use. Some of you may not like this, but I am requiring you all to become computer literate by the end of the year. In your folder you will find more information on this."

  Chapter Twenty

  Sandra slipped her hand to the inside of Tim's thigh and noticed that the speedometer on the Mustang was showing sixty miles an hour. The speed limit on the Old Charlotte Road was fifty-five, and Tim never exceeded it—except now. “Where's the fire?” she asked, but he did not seem to hear her.

  It had been a long day, and although it ended pleasantly, she was glad it was over. She acknowledged she was rather cross most of the day, but that wasn't entirely her fault. Her visit to Dr. Honneycutt on Friday produced information she was not prepared to receive. She realized Mary Lou was experiencing considerable stress, trying to move to the pastorium while leaving enough furniture and cooking utensils for Susan to use. Even so, Sandra thought Mary Lou could have been a little mo
re diplomatic.

  She glanced out the window and saw utility poles flashing by, illuminated by the Mustang's headlights. She checked the speedometer. Tim had increased his speed to sixty-five. It had been a hectic day. She tried to accomplish too much that morning and wound up rushing to get dressed. Tim insisted on leaving for Winston-Salem two hours before the wedding, when an hour and a half should have been sufficient. She hated it when Tim was right. They took the wrong off ramp from Interstate 40 and got lost. They arrived at the chapel just minutes before the ceremony began.

  She was amazed at the number of people from Dot who made the trip to Winston-Salem. It apparently caught Mary Lou and Mack off guard also, for they ran out of food during the reception. As a writer, she thought she should have a vivid imagination, but never in her wildest fantasy could she have envisioned Mary Lou looking pretty, but the doctor had been absolutely radiant in her wedding gown. Nevertheless, Sandra remained determined to wear a nice dress or perhaps a pantsuit at her wedding instead of the traditional white gown and veil.

  “Tim, slow down, damn it,” she screeched. “You're doing seventy-five."

  “Sorry,” he replied, immediately removing his foot from the accelerator and looking at his watch.

  “Why are you in such a hurry to get home?” she asked.

  “Well, I have one more surprise for you,” he replied. “There's a special on PBS tonight on George Eliot and her novels. It starts at 8:00 o'clock."