Derailed (34 page)

“And you probably won't.” My held breath exploded like a blown-out tire. “You know that woman's poison. She's crazy. Tried to get me thrown in jail. I think you're a fool to give her another chance.”

Rodney's eyebrows went up and he looked down at the table as silence settled between us. Finally, he spoke. “That may be, Dad. But I'll never know if I don't try.” He looked up at me with a squint. “This is something I learned from you, ya know . . . in a backwards
sort of way. You took the other path. You didn't give
my
mom a second chance, and look where it got us. So I'm gonna try this path. I'm gonna give Donita a second chance. It may not turn out any better, but . . . but that's what your choice taught me.” He spread both arms, offering himself as an example. “I gotta try.”

My bad example was causing him to go the other way? I wanted to argue. I wanted to remind him that his mom had left me, but I knew he was right. I'd driven her away. But . . . I'd been in no shape to turn things around back then. I was . . . an alcoholic who'd refused help until everything fell apart.

But a
second chance
for Donita? His use of those words shamed me. If God had forgiven me and given me a second chance, why couldn't I forgive Donita? Part of me wanted to, but I hadn't heard anything to indicate she'd come to the end of herself. I picked at a hangnail on my thumb and bit my lip while the room remained stuffed with silence.

“All right,” I finally said. “I hear ya. I suppose I should tell ya it doesn't matter, that you can bring Donita around here if you want, but I'm just not there yet. I—”

“You don't need to say that, Dad. I'm not askin' to bring her around here, not yet anyway. And like I said, I want to keep some distance between her and DaShawn. You see, truth is, I don't trust her either. I'm just sayin', I gotta try, and Grandma's place is the perfect distance from DaShawn. I'm not lettin' Donita move in, so I can have DaShawn over when she's not around, keep workin' on our father-son thing.” He grinned in a charming way that defused the tension. “I'll make gettin' a nice flat screen one of my first upgrades, and he and I can have pizza and watch games together.”

“Well, when you get sick and tired of all that pizza,” offered Estelle, “you're always welcome to slide your feet under this table.”

Rodney high-fived her. “And you better believe I'll be takin' you up on that offer more'n you probably want.”

I sighed deeply. “Well, if that's what you wanna do, I think we can work out a deal with the manager on Mom's apartment. That guy owes me for gettin' rid of some loud partiers a few years ago
so he didn't have to do an eviction on 'em. And one other thing.” I stood up with a wry grin on my face. “My name's Harry, and I'm an alcoholic.” I sat down. “Seriously though, AA was my first step to gettin' sober. God finished the job, but I needed the support I got in AA. Every addict does. And you might consider checkin' into Al-Anon too. They've got a good program to support families of addicts.”

Sitting in church the next morning, I couldn't help thinking of this latest zigzag in my life. It had taken me as much by surprise as a tsunami. I had to admit, not every unexpected turn had turned out as bad as it'd seemed at first. I'd been concerned not to make my son feel like we were kicking him out. Well, apparently he didn't feel that way, but . . . getting back together with Donita? That still seemed foolish to me. Still, his motives were good, and there was a chance his efforts would take him to a place where he realized his need for God. That had certainly happened to me when I hit bottom after trying to quit drinking on my own.

Wasn't there a Bible verse somewhere that spoke of God's ways being higher than our ways? What if all these events that I'd experienced as detours and derailments were more like a chess game? Maybe God had to move me and those around me through several steps before we were set up to make the good play. Could I have accepted buying our house, agreeing for my son to stay with us, going back into law enforcement, losing my mom, and having Donita show up again as God's plan if he'd told me ahead of time? Huh! I'd wanted him to show me a straight track.

While we were singing during praise and worship—I confess I wasn't paying much attention—the thought hit me: What if this wasn't the final destination for Rodney or for me? What if the rest of my life continued to be a series of unpredictable zigzags?

As the service progressed, my mind drifted even farther afield. What was next with my job? I mean, we needed the money and all,
and workin' for Amtrak fit my skill set, but surely God's purpose was greater than a monthly paycheck. Maybe I'd raise the question with the brothers on Tuesday night: Why does God have us workin' the jobs we work?

The booming voice of the short black man behind the pulpit cut through my thoughts. “Why are you goin' through what you're goin' through?” He waited a moment, and then said it again. “Why are you goin' through what you're goin' through? Most of us don't know.”

Whoa! I packed up my little inner dialogue and gave him my attention.

“Turn to Second Corinthians, chapter one, and read with me starting at verse three.” He waited a few moments. “Paul's speakin' here when he writes, ‘God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. For the more we suffer for Christ, the more God will shower us with his comfort through Christ.' ”

He read on through verse seven, and then went back to unpack them. “What you're goin' through is probably because God has something to teach you—but did you ever think it might also be for someone else? If you meant it this morning when we sang, ‘If You can use anything, Lord, You can use me' ”—I barely recalled singing the song—“then you gave the Lord permission to take you through a multitude of experiences that'll not only transform you, but equip you to minister to other people. You see, God doesn't waste anything!”

“That's right, Pastor, that's right.” Voices all over the room shouted agreement.

“Don'tcha know, he's the great recycler. He doesn't waste a thing. That's what Paul is talking about here. He comforts us in all our troubles so we can comfort others. Too often we think everything's about us. Well, I've got news for you. It's not!”

Embarrassed laughter skittered through the congregation.

“God wants you to be able to understand and sympathize with what's happening to other people, so when you see them goin' through it, you can help them the same way God helped you.”

Was Pastor Cobbs looking right at me?

“So how do
we
make it through what
we're
goin' through? The answer's in verse five. ‘God will shower us with his comfort through Christ.' Did you get that? It comes through Christ. Usually when we're goin' through, all we can think of is,
Get me outta here
, when we should be sayin', ‘Give me Jesus.' Give me more of him. That's where the comfort is. That's the only place you'll find it. And that's the only sure comfort you can pass on to others.”

Whatever Pastor Cobbs said after that was probably good, but God was talking to me. I'd started to get the message when listening to Grace Meredith sing, “Give me Jesus. You may have all the world, give me Jesus.” That had helped me see I needed to focus on Jesus rather than the zigzags in my life. But I'd still been bewildered by how often I felt yanked around. And I still felt the need to understand what was going on and how it all worked together.

Maybe it was okay if I still didn't understand it all. If I could get my comfort from seeking Jesus rather than wrestling everything to the ground, then maybe I was being equipped to pass the same comfort on to other people.
Give me Jesus
.

Braving a light drizzle, I put on my rain jacket and took Corky for a long walk that afternoon, still thinking about what Pastor Cobbs had said. If Pastor Cobbs was right that God is the great recycler, then maybe I had more to offer Rodney in dealing with Donita's addiction than I realized . . . if I could get over my raw mistrust of the woman. But . . .

“Corky, get over here. Don't be digging in other people's trash. Come, now! I don't care if there's half a Big Mac in that sack. Get your nose out of it.” I gave Corky's leash a tug and went back to my thoughts as we continued through the alleys.

Who was I to tell Rodney anything about what was right or wrong or how to live his life? I was the guy who'd let him down. Maybe I needed to start there, confessing the truth about who I was, not just
by standing up and saying, “My name's Harry, and I'm an alcoholic,” but much more seriously. The real comfort God had given me over my failure as a parent was the second chance he'd given me. He let me be a father to DaShawn and gave me the opportunity to turn to God as my Father. Had I ever told Rodney about that?

My dogged efforts to understand every little thing happenin' to us hadn't brought much comfort. I needed to focus beyond myself, beyond where I was going to live, or what happened to Mom, or why my son had returned. I needed to keep working on seeking Jesus and trusting that he was in control.

Maybe I simply needed to share with Rodney how God was comforting me now and not come across as someone who had all the answers.

When Corky and I got home again, Estelle was on the phone. She pressed the mute button. “It's your boss. He tried your cell, but you didn't pick up.”

I reached for the home phone, realizing I'd probably forgotten to turn my iPhone back on after church. “Yeah, Bentley.”

“Hey, Harry, just got word from the DEA. They think that big shipment is movin' in no more than a couple days. So, when you come in tomorrow, we need to do some planning. You might have to fly out to LA anytime this week. Just wanted to give you a heads-up so you aren't out on some short run. According to the DEA, this is really big, so we gotta be on it.”

I glanced sideways at Estelle. She wasn't going to be happy about this.

“Okay, Captain. I'll check in first thing.”

I dropped Corky off at the Amtrak kennel and
went straight to Captain Gilson's office the next morning.

“Take a seat, Harry, and I'll try and bring you up to speed.” Gilson scrolled through some e-mails on his computer. “Ah, here it is. Got this from the DEA last night saying the cocaine—that test shipment we talked about—was coming through in the next two or three days. I phoned them right back for details.”

“Who we talkin' about here? Individuals or street gangs?”

“That was my first question too. Most of the Drug Train traffic comes from the gangs, some individuals. But this is different. This is the Sinaloa cartel—”

“Sinaloa? Son of a . . . Wait! If the DEA has someone on the inside of the LA cell, that's huge. Why don't they just raid the place? Maybe they'll get lucky and cap their great leader”—I waved my arm expansively—“Joaquin ‘El Chapo' Guzman.”

Gilson matched my gesture with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “El Chapo stays in Mexico. My guess is the DEA's a lot more interested in its Chicago operation than LA.”

“Why's that?”

“LA's just one cell in the Southwest. There's San Diego, Phoenix, Albuquerque, San Antonio—there are lots of cities not that far from the border. But El Chapo himself has called Chicago his ‘home port.' Given the fact that Sinaloa is the largest cartel in the world, Chicago becomes its most important transportation hub. We already know Sinaloa has been sending freight cars full of marijuana to Chicago. But they always diversify, and now it looks
like they're opening up a new pipeline, like an octopus regenerating its arms.”

I shook my head. “Octopus, huh? So what good will it do to snip a tentacle?”