by Chris Fabry
I told my counselor I wasn’t much for the written word, that I was mostly a spoken-word man, but when he finished reading it, he had a big grin on his face as he folded it and put it in the envelope.
“I wouldn’t change a word, Billy,” he said as he handed the envelope back. “But I do disagree with one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You said you’re not a man of the written word. That’s a beautifully written letter. You were specific and descriptive—I don’t know how he could argue with anything you’ve put in there. And it’s clear you want the truth out in the open. How do you feel about it?”
“Pretty good, I guess. I wrote it five times. I’d wake up in the middle of the night with something new to put down, some memory that came up. I don’t know if I got it right or not.”
“Remember, it’s not about getting it right. It’s about saying what’s true.”
“Okay.”
“Now, make a copy of the whole thing,” he said. “He’s going to burn it.”
“You think so?”
“He’s not going to want anybody to see this. He’s going to ask you if you intend to press charges.”
“Could I?”
“You know all those cases with the Catholic priests. They settled out of court years later, with the grown-up altar boys.”
“I don’t want a penny of his money.”
“What do you want?”
“I want him to say he was wrong. That he’s sorry.”
“You may not get that.”
“But it’s worth a shot, right?”
“It’s worth following your heart, Billy. And the truth is always worth it.”
* * *
I sent the letter by registered mail that day. Three days later, late in the afternoon, I took a phone call that had nothing but silence on the other end. I said hello two times and then heard the voice that gave me the shivers.
“Billy Allman. It’s Vernon Turley.”
I paused. “I figured I’d be hearing from you. You got my letter.”
“I did. Do you want to get together and talk about this?”
I took a deep breath. “Yeah, I do.”
He mentioned a restaurant that was located between him and Dogwood, and I said I’d be there the next evening. That night I didn’t sleep, and all the next day I kept accusing myself of doing something stupid. He wasn’t that bad. I was blowing things out of proportion. Everybody goes through hard stuff. God can use even the negative.
But the voice of my counselor kept coming back. This was not some little thing. It was life-altering. It had affected every part of me. And I deserved an apology. If nothing else, I was going to get that from him.
* * *
The Western Steer sits on a little hill just off Interstate 64, a nondescript brick building with a view of passing cars and the changing colors of trees. Wooden tables and chairs rest on faded carpet, and the servers all look like they know they’re not going to get much of a tip from folks who wander like cattle through the double doors.
It was cloudy and menacing when I walked in a half hour early. The wind was picking up and turning the leaves skyward.
The lady at the front asked how many were in my party and showed me to a table near the front. I asked if it would be possible to get a booth in the back for a little more privacy and she took me back near the men’s restroom. After she left, I caught up with her and told her I’d changed my mind and that the first table she showed me would be a lot better. She rolled her eyes and said, “Suit yourself.”
I sat with my back to the front door and sipped a glass of water. My hand shook as I drank it, preparing what I was going to say and wondering what he was going to say. Vernon was the kind of guy who took over a room when he walked in, and I wanted to be in control of the situation.
A few people sat down around me, and when the server asked what I would like, I told her I’d order a salad but I wouldn’t take it until the person I was meeting came. The salad was the cheapest thing on the menu. I had made up my mind that there was no way he was going to pay for my meal.
The door opened behind me and I swear I felt his presence. It was as if Count Dracula had swooped down. I stared straight ahead, at the dusty elephant ear in the corner near the bathroom, waiting. He came up behind me and cleared his throat.
“Billy?”
I turned my head slightly, not to look at him but to acknowledge his presence. “Vernon.”
He took off his jacket and held it. Then he snapped his fingers to get the attention of the server. “Could we have a booth back there, please?”
The woman came fast.
“No,” I said.
He looked down at me, shocked. “Billy, I’d feel more comfortable back there.”
“I’m sure you would. I’m good here.”
He lowered his voice. “This conversation will be private.”
The lady had picked up his menu and was holding it, waiting for us to follow.
“I’m sitting here. If you want to sit back there and yell across the dining room, that’s your choice. I’ll be here.”
He stood there a minute and I just stared at the water. Finally he took the menu back, placed his jacket on the chair beside me, and sat with elegance. The greatest dignitaries of the world did not have the air that Vernon Turley had. The server walked away and then returned with his glass of water and asked if he would like something else to drink or if he was ready to order.
“Have you ordered?” he asked me.
I nodded.
“I’ll have the ten-ounce rib eye with baked potato, no butter or sour cream, medium well. Tossed salad with oil and vinegar on the side.” He was finally watching his waistline. While we were on the road, he would snack or have sodas with the rest of us.
He asked about my station and the land and all kinds of things to make small talk, but I tried to show him I wasn’t interested in making this more comfortable for him. He pulled the letter from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table.
“So . . . ,” he said softly. “What are your intentions?”
My counselor’s words came back to me and I stifled a smile. “You read the letter?”
His eyes showed fear like a cornered animal. Part of me felt sorry for him and I pushed that away.
“I did. It was quite a shock. I had no idea you could be this way.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I could be this way? And what way is that?”
“It would have been more helpful if you would have shown some gratitude for the opportunities I gave you. My wife asked me about the letter. She wonders why you left the group. What happened to you.”
“Why don’t you let her read it? That would sure clear things up fast, don’t you think?”
His eyes narrowed and the muscles in his face tightened. “Because it’s not true. Why are you trying to destroy me?”
“I’m not trying to destroy you.”
“Do you know what this kind of accusation could do to me? my reputation?”
An older lady wobbled up to the table from behind him and pecked him on the shoulder. “You’re Vernon Turley, aren’t you?”
He pushed back and smiled, then stood. “Yes, I am.”
“I have all your recordings. They mean so much, especially since I lost my husband. The Lord has worked through you, and I just wanted you to know that.”
He took her hand in both of his and looked down at her bent form. It was a surreal moment, considering what was in the letter in front of him. The server came with my salad, and the lady thanked him again, almost in tears, and toddled back to her booth where two other geriatric women sat. They talked loud enough for us to hear what a “blessing” Vernon’s ministry had been.
I bowed my head and said a silent prayer of thanks and of petition for the strength to say what I was about to say. After a bite of salad, I said, “Were there others?”
He looked up at me and now his eyes were hollow. “What do you mean?”
&nb
sp; “You know what I mean. What you did to me . . . did it happen to anybody else?”
He looked at my chest closely and it was only later that I figured out he was wondering if I was recording the whole thing. That made me wish I was.
“Billy, I don’t know what drove you to write such things in this letter. I don’t know why you would make such vile accusations—”
“Because it’s true. Every word of it and you know it. And if you’re going to sit there and tell me it’s not, this dinner is over.”
I picked up my napkin, pushed back the chair, and reached for my wallet. He reached out for my arm and I pulled away.
“Now don’t do anything rash; just stay here.” He ran a hand through his hair and cautiously looked around to see if anyone had noticed the tussle. “This is on me, by the way.”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “You’re not going to pay for your sins with an eight-dollar salad.”
“I’m not trying to pay for sins. I’m offering this meal as a gift, as a way of saying I’m sorry you feel so bad about what happened. And if there’s some other way I can repay you, I will.”
I picked up a radish and popped it into my mouth. “You’re sorry I feel so bad? That’s kind of like the coal company telling our family they were sorry it rained so much. What you did was no act of God, Pastor.”
“Please, keep your voice down.” He said it with his hands out over the table as if he were conducting a symphony.
“I’m not keeping my voice down. And I’m not raising it either. If we were talking about your music career or the latest ball scores, this is the level we’d be talking at. So if you don’t like it, I’ll just leave.”
“No, please, Billy. Let’s be civil. I’m sure we can come to an understanding.”
“Well, it’s going to be a little difficult to come to an understanding when you don’t even admit to doing what I detailed in that letter. And there can’t be any middle ground. Either I am lying through my teeth in there, I’m a fruitcake who has no idea what he’s talking about, or I’m telling the truth. Tell me straight out right now which of those three things you think is happening.”
He took a bite of salad and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “It’s not so cut-and-dried as that, Billy. I believe this is the way you remember it and I’m sorry. I truly am. To think that I hurt you in some way is quite painful. I don’t know how to say how sorry I am you feel this way. But there are different viewpoints, different perspectives.”
I put down my fork. “This is not about perspectives. It’s not about anything but telling the truth about what happened. You can tap-dance around this by saying how sorry you are about my feelings, but the fact remains that what I put in here is the truth. And I want you to admit it.”
He grabbed the letter as if I was going to snatch it from him. “I don’t remember that time the way you do; I’ll put it that way.”
“Really? And how do you remember it? That we were in that hotel room together watching CNN and drinking root beer?” I leaned forward. “And the morning after the first time, we walked into a church sanctuary and you gave your best performance. You even cried through the reciting of the verses you memorized.”
He shut his eyes and shook his head. Then he leaned forward and forced himself to speak in low tones. “Billy, you know I’m not like everybody else. I’m quirky. I might even seem weird to others. But that’s what fuels the creativity and the musicality. It’s what gets me out there in front of people. You knew that when you signed on for the ride. Am I an exhibitionist? Yes. When I go to bed, I sleep without clothes. Does that make me a pervert? If you were so offended by it or hurt, why did you keep coming out on the road with us? There was nobody holding a gun to your head.”
“So it was my fault.”
“No, you’ve got this all wrong. It’s nobody’s fault.”
“You’re right that going to bed without any clothes on doesn’t make you a pervert. But what I wrote in that letter, if it’s true, does. Now I’ll ask you again. Was I the only one, or were there others?”
“Of course not. And I don’t think that what happened to you—I mean, I can see from your perspective how you might have been offended by some of my tastes in what to watch on TV. I should have been more sensitive to that—”
“More sensitive?” I said, raising my voice. “I don’t believe you.”
“Please, please,” he said, holding out his hands again.
I felt a burst of adrenaline rush through my body and I leaned forward over my forgotten salad. “I could handle it if you just pranced around in your birthday suit. I could handle it if you sang about God’s love and forgiveness and watched dirty movies with your wife. And I could handle it if you sat here tonight and said you regret everything that happened and that you’re sorry and you’d do anything to make up for it. But what I can’t stand is having you sit here and say it was a difference in perspective or that you have a special personality and we all need to bow to your genius. What you did was wrong. And what I remember is not just my perspective; it really happened. I’ve got the scars up here to prove it.” I pointed to my head.
His face was red and tight. “What do you want? I’ve offered you money to keep your little radio venture going, but you refused.”
I shut my own eyes now and shook my head. “That’s what you think this is about. And don’t call it my little radio station. It may be small potatoes to you, but it’s a lot more than that to me.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I think it’s wonderful what you’ve done with your life, especially with all the strikes against you. I just don’t understand why you’re bringing this up after all this time. I’m not your enemy. I’ve always had your best interests at heart—”
“Stop,” I said. I wasn’t shouting anymore, just resolved. And the people around us were getting quiet. Vernon could sense it too. He looked like a cornered rat. “You’re going to sit there and listen to me. I’m going to tell you exactly what happened with all of the details. I don’t spend one night trying to fall asleep that I don’t think about what you did and have to work it through again.”
“Why don’t we go outside and continue this?”
“No,” I said. “We’ll stay right here and you’ll listen to every word.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding and pushing his own plate back. Folding his hands, he said, “Maybe I did do some things to you that I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. If I thought for a minute you didn’t want me to, I would have stopped.”
“Don’t put this on me!” I yelled, slamming my fist on the table. The silverware rattled. People stared now, but I had a laser beam focused on him. “If you’re sorry about what you did, just leave it at that. Don’t blame me. I was a teenager. I was vulnerable. I’d lost my daddy. I looked up to you and you took that trust and you used me.”
“You’re right; you’re right,” he said, reaching for his forehead to rub it and run a hand through his hair again. “I’m sorry. Period.”
A portly man wearing a sweater vest came up to the table and knelt down. “Gentlemen, is there a problem I can help with?”
“No, we’re fine,” Vernon said. “If I could have the check and maybe wrap this up in a doggie bag. Billy, do you want your salad saved?”
The man looked at me and something in his eyes led me to believe he was a kind soul trying to understand, but at the same time trying to keep his restaurant quiet.
“I’m finished,” I said, pulling out a ten-dollar bill and putting it beside my knife and fork.
“I’m taking care of this,” Vernon said.
I handed the bill to the manager. “This is for my salad and the tip. Will you make sure she gets it?”
He nodded.
It was pouring when I walked through the front door, one of those West Virginia gushers that fills the gutters in a minute or two. I stopped for a minute to cover my head with my hood and somebody grabbed me by the arm.
“If it’s all right with you, I’m going to sh
red the letter,” Vernon said. “Nobody else needs to know about this, don’t you agree?”
I turned and looked at him. He used to seem a lot taller, but with the years he had become bent at the shoulders and seemed to creep closer to the ground. His face was pleading, asking something of me rather than revealing, but even in the asking he was revealing.
“I’ve lived with the truth of what you did every day of my life, Vernon. What you do with the letter is your business. What I do with the truth is mine.”
I walked into the rain and he called after me. “Billy, I need to know. What are your intentions?”
I splashed through the parking lot and the running water across the yellow parking lines. He called again but I didn’t turn around. When I got in the truck and started it up, he was at the cashier’s station. I pulled through the standing water and down the hill to the stoplight.
Lost in thought, rubbing at the fog on the windshield and trying to peer through the rain streaks, my soul hydroplaning on the back roads of memory, the mesmerizing rhythm of the wiper blades carrying a beat of their own, I drove into the darkness, winding my way toward Dogwood. Like some magnet was pulling me, I wound up in Callie’s driveway. I turned off the truck and just sat there with the lights on.
I’ve spent my whole life looking through the water to hear the music and shut out the pain. Right then, I saw through the torrent. Like when Moses parted the Red Sea, the truth came to me through the downpour. The hurt and pain and everything that trapped me in the little world I’d built surfaced and I decided not to push it away. I’d been running in place trying to get away from myself, not making headway, holding people at a distance, feeling comfortable behind a microphone, talking to people like they were friends when I really didn’t know them and they didn’t know me. No wonder I felt more comfortable with machines, old radios, and a soldering iron. No wonder I clung to the thought of a girl from years ago and the illusions.
It was like waking up from some long dream with drops of water running down my face, tears and rain mingled down. I was cold and soaked to the bone standing there by the truck, my hair plastered to my head. I didn’t remember getting out, but I knew I would never forget what it felt like to finally feel. I smelled the wet earth and the worms struggling up through the sod and the muskrats in the holes by the creek. I heard the lonesome dove crying from some dry place for its mate. And my heart beating. And the sting of wet air in my lungs. A deep sadness and joy running through my veins with each pump of the heart. The trickling of water finding its own level.
