Providence: Once Upon a Second Chance

by Chris Coppernoll

  Before the clapping died down, Antonio walked around the curve of the bar to shake my hand. I stood. He placed his hand on my shoulder and turned us to face the diners, addressing the room like the village mayor speaking to his townspeople.

  “For those of you who don’t know who this guy is, this is Jack Clayton, the man who wrote the best-selling book to come out of Providence, ever.” The restaurant hollered again.

  “His book, my wife, Louise, bought for me, and I read it, loved it, recommend it.” He looked at me. “Not that you need any more sales, right, Jack?”

  Laughter erupted, and I looked across the room at the welcoming crowd, then laughed just a little bit myself. By the time Antonio pulled me from my seat, each heartbeat brought with it a flashbulb explosion of white. I heard low humming in my ears and could feel perspiration rolling past my collar.

  One hundred eyes looked up at me, smiling. I concentrated on breathing—and prayed he wouldn’t ask me to speak.

  “Why don’t you say something to the people ’cause I know they’d love to hear you speak.”

  Antonio and I stood together in the center of the dining room, his arm wrapped over my shoulder like I was his son. The first thing to pop into my head was “Like what?” Thankfully I stifled that inane response. I looked into the faces, surprised to see something I couldn’t have predicted: These people seemed happy for the interruption. The room blurred and slowed in the racket of applause. I sensed God’s presence in the room. I silently reframed their cheering—it wasn’t for me, it was for what God had done in their town. It was for the expression of sacrifice and the infusion of hope. I prayed for words—wisdom and words.

  “I’m sure you all came here tonight hoping an author would stand up and give a speech.” This got a laugh. “I want to thank Antonio for his warm hospitality and his gracious introduction.” I’d spoken at enough fund-raisers and faculty and alumni dinners to know the importance of thanking everyone for attending. But that was all I had. There was nothing but a flash of prayer, and I opened my mouth to speak.

  “I’ve had … a pretty amazing couple of years. I can’t begin to tell you what it means having so many people read a book and care about the things you really care about. A lot of folks here in Providence got to have their stories told, and you know how much it means when someone listens. I’m not a pastor; I’m just a regular guy, your neighbor, someone who happens to live in Providence. I work at the college each day teaching students to remember those in need.”

  I had started to ramble, but I knew where I was going. I read it on their faces. They weren’t excited because an author stood before them. They were excited that someone who knew God would step into their smoky world and watch a football game with them on their TV. They didn’t want to hear from me. They wanted to hear from God. I spoke the words God gave me as if they had been written out on a teleprompter.

  “Everyone wants to know if there’s a God. They want to know if He loves them. I’m here tonight to tell you He lives, and that He died for all. And that He wants you to come home, to Him.”

  I paused, waiting to see if there was more, but no more came. “Thanks, thanks for listening.”

  I turned to go back to the bar, but Antonio grabbed my arm and escorted me to his personal table. The silence and reverence of the moment reverted to normal conversation, and Antonio sat down with me. He gave my order to the waiter.

  “Jake, San Marino, portobello mushrooms … and bring another glass of wine.”

  Jake was gone in an instant, and Antonio fixed his friendly, day-worn eyes on me.

  “Mr. Clayton, it’s wonderful having you here, and while you’re here, I want you to enjoy yourself. I’ll keep people from bothering you.”

  “They won’t bother me.”

  “No, no, let you eat your dinner in peace.”

  “You’re very kind, Antonio.”

  He leaned back in his seat and smiled like a proud father. “This means a lot to me that you’d come down here. I want you to know that.”

  “You’ve got a great place here.”

  “I want to tell you … Your book, it did something for me.” He pointed up toward the bar. “You see that picture over there behind the bar?”

  I turned to look. High on the back wall was an eight-by-ten color photograph of a Little League baseball team in blue jerseys and white pants. All the players on the team were black. Antonio and two other men stood behind them.

  “That’s a team up in Indianapolis called the Blue Jays. We sponsor the team … You know, pay for their uniforms, equipment expenses. At the end of each season, win or lose, we invite all the players and their families into Antonio’s to have a pizza party.”

  “I’m sure they love it.”

  “How could they not; it’s Antonio’s?” He grinned. Then he got quiet and leaned into the table, extending his arm across the white tablecloth. “Your book, Mr. Clayton, made me see the boys up there differently. Those boys …”—Antonio pointed up at the photo—“they formed that baseball team at the Boys Club.”

  “That’s a good thing you’re doing.”

  Antonio leaned in closer and spoke softly, so softly I had to read his lips through the noise of the restaurant. “Mr. Clayton, I don’t like black people.”

  He waited for my reaction, but I didn’t give him any.

  “I’m sixty-two years old, and I’ve never liked black people. But you know … those boys come from broken homes … I come from a broken home. I saw myself in that book of yours, Mr. Clayton. And then I saw these kids and realized they needed some help. That’s when we started sponsoring teams. We got three up there now. Do you think you could help us start something like that here?”

  “I’d love to.”

  After dinner I thanked Antonio and left what I thought was a reasonable tip, considering they’d fed me the best meal in the house for free. Another taxi took me back to the hotel.

  Back in my suite, I took off my jacket and hung it carefully on a wooden hanger. I relaxed into a soft leather chair and grabbed the yellow legal pad to jot down the thought fragments that had come to me during the taxi ride. The pages were starting to pile up.

  I knew as I wrote that this was going to be my last book. After writing it I would leave the literary world to real writers. If Laborers was the hit song, this would be my encore. The last installment in my brief four-book career.

  As I sat there, I realized that remembering Jenny, Mitch, and Erin—the way we all were then—was worth the trip. It was worth the tears when the memories appeared thick and powerful. I would write this book to remember—and for all the other young, untested college students who would walk alongside the four of us as we were then, forever young, filled with dreams and innocence and love.

  Writing in longhand this weekend had made the story more intimate, like the letters I used to write to Jenny.

  I shut off a multitude of lights and climbed into bed. The sheets were crisp and fresh. I clicked off the bedside lamp and rolled over to face the Providence moon shining brightly through my window. A thought occurred to me, a daydream that had me wishing the book could be finished by morning: I would check out in my new clothes, drop the manuscript in an anonymous FedEx box, then disappear forever.

  ~ FIFTEEN ~

  And when we hear the voices sing

  The book of love will open up and let us in.

  —Mr. Mister

  “Broken Wings”

  It was a conversation, not a date. I knew that. Still, I showered and carefully groomed myself in the bathroom mirror, glad I’d washed my best pair of khakis. I borrowed a striped maize and blue polo from Mitchell’s closet, sprinkled on Drakkar Cologne, and set out on foot for my third visit to Lillian Hall. This time would be different. I was going because Jenny Cameron asked me. I wondered why she wanted to talk with me. A few possibilities crossed my mind: I’d said something that offended her; or she was involved with someone else and didn’t want to hurt my feelings; or I was a freshman, and s
he was only a year and a half from graduation, and spending any time with me now would undoubtedly lead to heartbreak in … a year and a half.

  The reason didn’t matter. I was elated at the thought of spending time with her. But still … whatever she had to say must be important. Anything inconsequential she could have told me on the street.

  “Your name?” The brown-haired student covering the reception desk barely looked at me.

  “Jack Clayton.”

  “Go ahead and sign in.”

  I scribbled my name on a clipboard while she dialed Jenny’s room.

  “Jenny, there’s someone here for you.”

  “Be right there.”

  No sooner had I finished giving back the pen, Jenny was in the room with us. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a black band, and she wore a simple gold cross, visible above the top button of her white blouse.

  “Hi, there,” she said, as if we did this sort of thing all the time. “Wanna come up?”

  She took the two of us to a small recreation room on the second floor. It was little more than a couple of stuffed reading chairs, a fake-leather couch and TV, and a coffee table covered with magazines like Seventeen and People. The room was empty, but I doubted it would stay empty for long.

  I took a seat on the faux-leather sofa. Jenny sat in one of the chairs. She wasted no time getting down to business.

  “Jack, I’ve been thinking about what it is I want to say to you. And I haven’t got it exactly right, but I think it’s important I just come right out and say it.”

  In time I would learn this was trademark verbal cadence for Jenny. Her careful selection of words was like a chef selecting the finest ingredients, then measuring them in the right amounts before combining them into a gourmet feast.

  “This afternoon you asked if we could spend some time together, and I said no. You wanted to know why, and I think you have every right … but …” Jenny paused for a moment, then continued. “Here’s the tricky part to put into words,” she said, clasping her hands together, entwining her fingers. “The part I wasn’t prepared to tell you this afternoon, and the reason I said no to you is … I’ve found myself thinking about you since the night of the party.” She stopped speaking to see how much of this I was getting.

  “I’ve been thinking about you quite a lot … which isn’t a bad thing, unless of course you’re dating another man, supposed to be focusing your attention on an important paper, applying for an internship, and investing yourself completely in work you believe in. Then it’s not so good. Do you see what I mean?”

  “I see … Do you want to go on, or should I say something?”

  “Actually, I’d like to go on. You can say something in a minute.”

  I kept a straight face, but just barely. As she spoke, a candle was lit inside me.

  “Even though that’s not so good, having you in my mind, I haven’t been able to stop having you be there.” She wrapped up in an awkward finish and sat silent, eyebrows arched, waiting for my reaction.

  “Well, if you’re saying this to get me off your mind, then I must warn you, your plan may backfire.” I smiled at her.

  Jenny smiled too, and I saw how beautiful she looked when happy, when everything was right. We sat there long enough to process what had been said, not the long-term implications, but the substance.

  “Where are my manners? Do you want something to drink? Coke, tea, water?”

  “Coke, water, sure, whatever.”

  Two girls entered the room talking. They stopped abruptly when they saw us. One asked if it would be all right if they watched TV, and it dawned on me how difficult it would be finding privacy in a house like this.

  “That’s fine,” Jenny told them. She motioned for me to follow, and we exited down the back stairs that led to the kitchen. We made hot chocolate with water from the coffee tap and took it back upstairs to the rec room.

  The room was filled with girls congregating around the TV to watch Moonlighting. We all sat around on the floor and laughed together. That’s when I learned how watching TV in a group could be an absolute blast. The girls ogled David Addison, and Jenny and I drank our hot chocolate. Sometimes we made eye contact, our first private language. When the show ended, the room emptied as quickly as it had filled. By then it seemed late, the way long days get heavy around 10:00 p.m.

  “This was a nice way to end the day,” Jenny said, standing and then leaning against the doorframe in a sleepy, languid pose.

  I stepped close enough to touch both of her hands. My heart was thumping so loudly inside my chest, I thought my teeth might begin to click.

  “Better than nice,” I said. “Thanks for the invitation.”

  Jenny softened, and I moved my hand to touch her face and pull her mouth close to mine. Her arms wrapped around my waist, and she met me with her kiss. I was immediately drawn into her, into a deep, rich, secret place behind her eyes. A bond was being formed that felt infinite and mighty. Our lips pressed together and formed a new world, a place of comfort and familiarity … and possibility.

  I opened my eyes. Jenny had been sleepy before, soft and lithesome, but now her green eyes looked fully alert.

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment I saw you,” I whispered, her hands in mine. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” I went on, saying too much, going too fast.

  I let my words trail off, letting go of her hands before she had a chance to respond. I turned to retrieve my coat still hanging on the back of a chair. I felt as if I’d been hit with a stun gun. Was this what Mitch and Erin felt when they were together?

  I put on my coat, hoping that when I turned around, Jenny would have slipped away into the hallway. But her eyes still stared at me with the same unblinking tenderness.

  “I didn’t anticipate this happening tonight,” she said in a voice of calm surrender.

  “I didn’t anticipate this could even exist,” I said. Every word I said seemed bigger than life. But I didn’t want to say too much. I didn’t want to ruin what words couldn’t define. I moved closer to her. We were somehow alone again in the busy dorm.

  “I need to get going,” I said, moving past Jenny in the doorway, cautious of more contact.

  She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Jack, I don’t know what’s happened here tonight,” her voice a mere whisper, “but it was … I’m not even sure what word to use. Let’s not leave this like before, not knowing when we’ll see each other again.”

  “I’m going to go home,” I said, toppled by new emotions. “We can talk tomorrow.”

  I took one step, and her hand slipped off my shoulder. As it slid gently down my arm, a chill went up my spine. I heard a profound message in her touch. A message too big for words.

  “I’ve found you.”

  ~ SIXTEEN ~

  When I was young I thought of growing old

  Of what my life would mean to me

  Would I have followed down my chosen road

  Or only wished what I could be?

  —Mr. Mister

  “Kyrie”

  The hotel phone rang early on Sunday morning. I answered and was whiplashed from a deep state of unconsciousness by a shrill voice on the other end. It belonged to Arthur Reed.

  “Jack, what on earth are you doing at the Hyatt?” He sounded like an irate parent whose kid has stayed out too late.

  I wondered how Arthur had known where to find me. If I’d been more alert, I would have figured out that he’d called Peter, who, thanks to caller ID, would have known where I was all along.

  “Why are you calling me, Arthur?” The digital clock on the nightstand read 7:34.

  “I’ve been calling all over creation trying to track you down. Have you seen this morning’s paper?” His voice blistered.

  “No. I’ve been sleeping, Arthur. What’s going on? Has someone died?”

  “Just your reputation. Do you know a journalist named Bud Abbott?”

  I pulled away the sheets and blanket
and sat upright on the edge of the bed, rubbing my burning eyes. “He called on Friday and asked me some questions about a story he was going to write.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s written his story. Do you have today’s paper?”

  “What? What are you saying?” I tossed on the hotel robe and shuffled to the door, remembering the complimentary Indy Star that had been left outside the morning before. There it was, the Sunday-morning edition. I picked it up, walked back into the room, opened the sections, and let them fall across the glass dining table.

  “Check the Lifestyle section, Jack.”

  Bud’s story wasn’t page one, but I didn’t have to look very far. Next to a piece on Hollywood actors performing Christmas charity work in Los Angeles ran this story:

  RECLUSIVE AUTHOR FOR THE POOR LIVES IN GRANDEUR —Bud Abbott, Chicago Tribune

  Providence, IN—This Christmas, as the homeless in America struggle to keep warm during one of the coldest winters on record, Jack Clayton, Time magazine’s PERSON OF THE YEAR and author of the mega-best seller Laborers of the Orchard, stays in luxury hotel rooms, wears tailormade suits, and employs a private maid. The extravagant lifestyle of this self-described “advocate for the poor” is well beyond the means of average Americans, let alone the poor.

  Laborers has sold in excess of 18 million copies in the United States. The book details the work of the Campus Missions Office in Providence’s poorer neighborhoods and has become an international sensation, earning Clayton an estimated 20 million dollars in royalties.

  Now high-lifestyle questions are being raised about Clayton’s fortunes and his possible misuse of moneys earned from the poor he purports to serve. The reclusive Clayton, forty, has never granted an interview about his work or his finances. Other questions journalists are eager to ask Clayton stem from several run-ins with the law, including two mysterious shootings, one in Chicago and another near Clovis, New Mexico. These questions, like the repeated phone calls to his office, go unanswered.