Embrace Me (40 page)

She went down into the water as Daisy and came up Valentine for real.

“I don't deserve any of it,” I said to my mother on the phone, finally having garnered up the nerve to tell her who Valentine really was.

“Of course you don't. But you needed it. And God knows what we have need of before we even ask. He gave you the double-portion of redemption you needed.”

“I'll still have to ask her forgiveness. I'm sure of that.”

“Of course. It's going to be harder on her than it will be on you.”

“I was hoping—”

“She's feeling all clean and neat right now, and you're going to drag up the muck she doesn't know is still there. But after that, and who knows how long it will take her to work through it, she'll be free of the grime. And so will you.”

Spoken like a true prophet.

When I left Philadelphia and returned to Mount Oak, I didn't hold much of a clue as to how it would work out. I felt somewhat like Abraham, blessed to be a blessing, called out of Ur. Only I was called back to Ur, I guess. Okay, the analogy falls flat if you take it across the board.

But to Mount Oak we came. Rachel, Jessica, and Justin in Rachel's little pickup truck with a small U-Haul trailer, me on my bike.

On the second day we were in Mount Oak we came upon the Laundromat at the end of Oakly Road. Upon inspection it seemed to be in good shape structurally, and the price was right. Thirty thousand.

Half of my remaining savings gone in one day.

With the plumbing redone and some work on the electrical system, hauling away the old machines, replacing the broken windows, adding kitchen appliances—used ones at that—another ten left my bank account.

I look around me now. We still need new floors and some paint these years later. But my account is emptied.

Now, I have no idea how many people I wounded with my avaricious messages at Elysian Heights. But I knew of the Rabinskis. Linda hadn't been assigned to a wheelchair yet when I went to the hospital and anonymously paid off most of her medical bills. She is now, though. And I visit her as Augustine from time to time. But really it's Drew who needs to see how she's doing.

It started small. Fixed-hour prayers, helping people with housework and yard work and homework, getting jobs to pay the bills and keep the place going. Then a money order started arriving for a thousand dollars each month. Monica thought she was being sneaky. But the Slade, Kentucky, postmark told the tale. I always act like it's such a mystery and she loves it. She knows I know, and it's a nice little game we play. Elysian Heights put us on their missions' roster after the New York pastor arrived and sends a check every month thereby cementing my belief that God, not man, created irony.

I quit my job as a short-order cook at the Waffle House about a year ago when the homework program really took root and my visits around the neighborhood used so much time, not to mention that our neighbors, realizing there was something missionlike going on, began to expect a sermon on Sundays.

I guess I really am a pastor.

But if I was a real, bona fide pastor, I'd probably take exception to that definition being placed on someone like me. They're a bunch given to exact terms, and who can blame them?

We're having a wedding today, by the way, in the little rundown park nearby. The ordination still comes in handy. After the ceremony the bride and groom want us all to paint the swing set and put some new boards on the seesaws. They invited the Hoovervilles to come down too. Personally, I think that's going a little too far, but hopefully they'll behave themselves. They're a pretty ripe bunch out there.

So maybe we're all a bunch of failures in the eyes of the world, and sometimes I feel that way all on my own. But a wedding's taking place today and the weather is fine.

We are on a bit of a holy high, I admit. The warm day, the dry grass, the orange and yellow paint, the beautiful bride with long brown hair curling down her back, and the groom with a recent short hair-cut looking ten years younger than a couple of days ago. The kids from all over the neighborhood stand on the sidelines and giggle. The glaring white gown sewn by Charmaine blows in the breeze.

And the food. Valentine made up three huge serving tins of pan-fried chicken. Add to that her mashed potato casserole, fresh green beans, a huge pan of Mandarin orange raspberry spinach salad— covered with some kind of dressing she said she just put together using what Blaze had on hand in the kitchen—and we feast like Romans. Hey, I'm obeying the spirit of the law here. Joining in the celebration with the couple is what's most important today.

Justin is looking a little guilty—he's the ascetic of us all, but I tell him sometimes we have to accept God's lavish gifts as they come and we shouldn't put ourselves above His goodness. As long as you're not saying that about a Mercedes or a yacht, I think it's sound theology.

Miss Mildred's peach cobbler sits beside a homemade wedding cake brought by the bride's cousin, an extraordinarily large redneck, a term by which he describes himself, who likes to bake.

There's just no telling, is there?

Bobby fills up his plate fuller than he should, but I don't have the heart to say anything.

“Bobby, if you don't eat every bite of that, you'll have to go through your flash cards twice on Monday,” Val says.

Val, because the bride asked her to, spoons up the mashed potato casserole, her dark pink scarf in place. She'd planned on just dropping off the food.

The neighborhood people are onto her though. The kids call her, “The nice lady with the scarf.”

Maybe someday she'll remove the scarf. But that's got to come from her, not me. I'll never encourage Val to do anything she doesn't want to do again.

Easter's in two days and there stands my father, his suit hanging on him like a garment bag, his face drawn and gray. “Drew.”

“Hello, Dad. I'm surprised to see you.”

The understatement of the year.

“Can I come in?”

I swing wide the door. “How was your drive?”

“Tiring.”

“I'll get you a cup of tea.”

He nods.

“Have a seat on the couch.”

So what do I do now?

Make tea. At least there's that.

I fill the teakettle to the top, giving me some extra time before the water comes to a boil. Man, my father showing up. He never went to anybody. People came to him.

Okay, so my pride flares as I turn up the gas burner on the stove. As bad as I thought I was, Charles Parrish was ten times worse. It doesn't seem so strange God gave me a chance at redemption with Daisy, but Charles Parrish is a different story. It's not that I don't think God is big enough. I just doubt my father's intent.

“You've got to forgive him, Drew,” I say to myself. “You have no other choice.”

No choice whatsoever.

I want him to squirm. He won't, though. Charles Parrish doesn't even know how.

I set the tea on the coffee table.

“You're not having any?”

“Just water for me.”

“You didn't have to go to the trouble.”

He's taken off his suit coat and rolled up the sleeves of his cotton button-down. He's loosened his tie. “I don't know why I'm even here.”

“Because you're dying, Dad, and you want to make amends.”

“Yes. I made so many mistakes.” He leans forward, sips his tea, then casts himself against the back of the couch. “That drive took it all out of me.”

“Hold on a sec.”

I head back to my room, grab my quilt and pillow, and a while later my father sleeps like the dead right there on the couch.

God help me, I can't forgive him. I can't find it in my heart. It's not there. I pray for God to soften my heart. I was in rebellion for so long, I don't want to find myself there again.
Soften my heart
.