From The Dead (23 page)

“Have you seen Mel?” Chuck asked.

“It’s Wednesday. He works afternoon and evening.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Chuck started back down the hall
before he stopped in his tracks and spun around again. “Hey, are
you busy right now?”

“Sweeping the floor.”

“That can wait. Anything ASAP?”

“No.”

“Let’s grab a late breakfast. Want to?”

* * *

After more than fifty years in business, the
mom-and-pop restaurant occupied the same stand-alone building, on
Route 91 near the heart of Hudson. Around nine thirty on this
weekday morning, a handful of patrons sat scattered among the
booths: retirees, businesspeople and those who enjoyed a random
vacation day. Behind Jesse and Chuck, a real-estate agent met with
clients who prepared to relocate to the area—from Minneapolis,
based on what Jesse couldn’t help but overhear from the cackling,
over-eager agent.

Yes, life seemed to roll along. But Jesse recognized
it as a mirage, for his toughest hurdle would come when he told
Chuck about Drew. But not today.

“This place hasn’t changed at all,” Jesse pointed out
as he examined the dark-stained woodwork and aging light fixtures.
Even in the middle of the day, the place seemed too dim. When Jesse
was younger, Chuck had taken him here often, particularly after a
season in which they had spent insufficient quality time
together.

A silver-haired waitress approached their
table—apparently en route to retirement—to take their order.
“Preacher Chuck, my favorite bachelor!”

“Winnie,” he replied.

With a wink, Winnie removed a pen and order pad from
her apron. When she eyed the younger half of the pair, she stepped
back. “I don’t believe it: Jesse Barlow, is that you?”

Geez, now Jesse remembered her. She’d waited on them
since he was a kid, back in the days when she died her hair an
unfortunate shade of strawberry blond.

She asked Jesse questions about life on the west
coast and why on earth he’d depart the beautiful ocean for this
region’s winters on ice. They bantered back and forth until Jesse’s
belly erupted with a loud groan. Winnie collected their orders—an
omelet for Jesse, corned-beef hash and eggs with a side of bacon
for Chuck—poured two cups of coffee, and disappeared toward the
kitchen. Jesse stirred cream and half a sugar packet into his
cup.

Chuck seemed surprised. “You always got
pancakes—wouldn’t touch an omelet to save your life! What
happened?”

“Jada got me hooked on them,” Jesse replied. “But she
ordered hers with cholesterol-free eggs and filled with spinach and
tomato. A health nut.”

Chuck sipped his coffee. Jesse watched his father
savor the scalding liquid as it trickled down his throat. Chuck
said, “I don’t think I ever talked to her on the phone. What’s she
like?”

Jesse shrugged. “L.A. girl. Pretty much fits the
stereotype everyone imagines.”

An awkward pause, with Jesse all too ready to forget
Jada. His father must have noticed Jesse didn’t want to delve
deeper.

Chuck looked at his son like he wished he knew what
to say, something that would allow him to connect with Jesse. A
familiar expression, Jesse recognized it as the ache of a minister
on behalf of a loved one. Strange how two people, despite shared
flesh and blood, can become strangers, victims of time and
distance.

“How long have you two been together?” Chuck asked,
his eyes glued to Jesse’s.

“
Were
together,” Jesse corrected. “About ten
years—friends first, though.”

“All those years and I never met her,” Chuck said,
closer to an afterthought than an acknowledgment.

“You never came to California.”

“Was I welcome?”

Though Chuck’s tone communicated full sincerity,
Jesse took offense.

Jesse traced the rim of the coffee cup with his
finger. “Can we change the subject, please?”

Regret settled into Chuck’s face. “I’m sorry, I
didn’t mean it that way.”

Another uncomfortable pause. From the booth behind
them, the real-estate agent—the cackler—excused herself and headed
to the restroom. As soon as she walked out of earshot, Jesse heard
the married couple conspire to find a different relocation expert
once they returned home.

Winnie returned with their breakfasts. Chuck prayed
over the meal, and they started to eat. From across the table,
Jesse picked up the scent of over-medium eggs and warm, greasy
bacon fresh from the grill—two reasons he regretted letting Jada
goad him into a healthier diet.

Jesse speared a fried redskin potato, the
restaurant’s answer to hash browns, as he soaked in the ambience
some more. “Seems strange to hang out at this joint again. The guys
and I used to skip classes in high school and come here.”

A knowing glint in his eye, Chuck grinned. “You guys
skipped classes in
middle
school and came here, too!”

Jesse exchanged a wider grin. Shocked, he fell back
against the booth in disbelief. “How’d you know about that?”

“Are you kidding? I’m your dad—and a minister. I knew
more about you back then than you realized.” He crunched on a bite
of bacon. “Besides, you’re forgetting that day in seventh grade
when I drove right past this place and saw you guys out front,
trying to figure out how to hold a cigarette.”

Jesse fought to swallow his mouthful of coffee before
he burst out with a laugh. “Oh, that’s right! Sanders finagled
those cigarettes up at the gas station—the poor guy had a five
o’clock shadow in seventh grade and the cashier never questioned
his age.” Jesse’s eyes widened as he relived the long-gone memory.
Then he gestured at his father with his fork. “You were so mad, you
stopped the car, rounded us up, and took us back to school—even
recommended
a detention for us, as I recall.”

“Let the punishment fit the crime, I figured,” Chuck
replied through a guffaw.

Jesse shook his head in wonder. “I gave you my share
of headaches growing up, huh?”

“You were a strong-willed kid,” Chuck agreed. “It
proved a challenge at times, but I never wanted you to lose that
quality. Thanked God for it.” He paused, then delved into his hash.
“That strong will of yours will save someone’s life one day. I
believe that; I’ve always sensed it about you.”

Rapt, Jesse now absorbed his father’s every word,
though Chuck himself didn’t notice. Jesse wondered if his own
spirit of determination were a genetic quality, one which would
manifest in Drew as the child grew older.

“Anyway,” Chuck continued, “it came as no surprise
you were as …
vibrant
as you were. Your mom was much the
same. A pistol.”

“Are you sure I take after Mom? You like to have your
share of fun too.”

“Not nearly like she did. After we first married, we
got into countless arguments because I was so nervous and she was
so spontaneous. She loved life, your mom. She taught me to kick it
up a notch. Said I should buy a motorcycle.” He toasted Jesse with
his coffee cup. “So I did—a few years after she died.”

Jesse examined his father’s eyes—eyes that
communicated a loss, minus the helpless sorrow. “Do you miss
her?”

Chuck blinked in slow motion. “Every day. She was my
other half.” He took another look at his son’s intent expression.
“Are you doing all right? I mean, is life okay, in general?”

“Sure.” Jesse brushed off the question. He couldn’t
mention Drew and the near-abortion after all this time—he’d feel
too ashamed at what his father might say, too fearful of the
disappointment he pictured in his father’s eyes. Jesse told himself
he shouldn’t care about Chuck’s opinion, but he did care.

Jesse felt inadequate in his father’s presence. The
issue didn’t reside in what Chuck
did,
but rather, in who he
was. A frustrating quality, Jesse couldn’t put his finger on it.
Throughout Jesse’s existence, Chuck had lived a clean life. Yet the
man didn’t exude self-righteousness; he didn’t lord a religious
aloofness over anyone, or even criticize Jesse. Maybe that was it.
Deep down, did Jesse
want
his dad to say something to him?
At this point in his life, Jesse possessed a profound regret for
his own mistakes but couldn’t find a sufficient way to repay the
losses. Maybe Jesse wanted someone to scream at him, to provide a
method of penance.

Winnie returned with the check and a coffee
refill.

Jesse took another bite of his omelet.

CHAPTER 38

When Jesse returned to the church building before
noon, he focused his efforts on the front lobby and its surrounding
hallways, in preparation for that evening’s midweek worship
service. He buffed the floors with the giant machine—the one with
the spinning round brush—he’d seen over the years but had never
handled.

Once he finished in the lobby, he stopped the
machine. Then he glanced over at the doors which led to the worship
auditorium.

He still hadn’t attended a worship service since his
return home. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t even stepped
back inside the auditorium itself. Mel had cleaned it thus far.
Jesse wandered over to a pair of walnut-colored doors and stepped
through.

The room was pitch black except along the sides,
where a series of elongated windows accented the walls. Daylight
seeped through crevices in the closed blinds. Jesse could trace the
vague figure of his hand in front of his face but couldn’t quite
see his fingers when he wiggled them. Along the back wall, he felt
his way in search of the lighting panel. At last, he located it and
bathed the room in a warm sepia glow. But as he scrutinized the
room, one quality struck him: how cold and lifeless it seemed
without people assembled inside. As Chuck had said, the church
isn’t a building but, rather, a group of people.

The congregation had remodeled the room since Jesse
left home. He strolled along the aisles. Toward one corner of the
room, he located the third row from the back—the area where, at
sixteen years old, he and other classmates had hung out during
services. From these seats, near another set of doors at the corner
of the room, he and his buddies had sneaked outside during services
for a smoke along the side of the building, an implied dare for a
late arriver to catch them.

Anything to distance himself from his identity as the
preacher’s son.

Jesse took his time as he wandered up the center
aisle across thin, tan carpeting, the industrial type. He made his
way past rows of chairs, their frames the color of charcoal, their
backs and seats padded with material the color of merlot. Large,
fabric-covered rectangles hung along the khaki walls to help absorb
sound. Overhead hung a series of track lighting, both general
lights and spotlights aimed toward the main platform, which sat at
the auditorium’s forefront.

Jesse ran his fingers along the wood paneling of the
platform before he climbed a trio of steps that led to the top.
Speakers loomed overhead, pointed down toward the auditorium’s
chairs, and balanced an impressive set of feedback speakers that
sat on the platform’s floor for the band’s benefit. On the
platform, behind a series of microphones, a collection of
instruments sat: a keyboard, drums encased in a plexiglass cubicle
for sound absorption, electric and bass guitars, and a small set of
percussion instruments. Chuck believed church should be a
celebration. And Jesse had to admit, he loved it when the music got
loud and sent the room into vibrations.

Jesse sat down on the platform, dead center, the
position from which Chuck started his preaching—
started
being the key word, as his father tended to roam back and forth
when he spoke. To Jesse’s recall, Chuck took pleasure in walking
down the platform’s steps and interacting, like a good friend, with
members who sat in the front rows.

Jesse peered out into the sea of chairs before him,
which numbered close to one thousand, packed during worship
services but empty in this serene moment. How intimidating, yet
invigorating, the view had appeared to Eden and him when this
building first opened. During the week, when the church was empty
and they’d gotten bored, he and Eden used to jump off the platform
to see who could land the farthest. A slew of similar memories,
random and minute, now rushed through his mind.

Jesse could recall the day they broke ground where
this room now sat.

“Soon this empty plot of land will be filled with
people,” Chuck had whispered to him at the time, his father’s heart
in a clear ache for random individuals, faces Chuck had yet to
meet. “People who hurt, who seek answers in their lives. People who
need what you have.”

On his feet again, Jesse now sauntered over to his
right, where he ran his finger along the wall that bordered the
back of the platform area. At its far edge, he reached the
baptistery. This was a large, tiled tub in which a minister
immersed people in water during baptism, a symbolic gesture that
illustrated a Christian’s death to sin and new life of salvation.
Jesse ran his hand along the sparkling teal tiles.

He was thirteen years old during his own baptism. One
of the first to step into this tub, he had waited until a Sunday
when the schedule showed an assistant minister would perform the
ordinance—his wait an act of independence on Jesse’s part, even at
that age.

Although Jesse had seen others undergo baptisms, it
proved a pleasant surprise to him when he himself stepped down into
the waist-deep water: It felt cozy, like a warm bath. At nine years
old, Jesse had become a Christian and affirmed the decision at his
baptismal moment. As an assistant minister gripped Jesse’s hand, he
guided Jesse backward into the water, which engulfed Jesse with
fresh abandonment, and pulled him up again. The immersion itself
took about two seconds, but right away Jesse knew he’d
underestimated its impact. As he emerged from underwater, broke
through the surface, he felt the water sweep over his face and
chest. Inside him, a sense of radiance seemed to dawn, an acute
awareness that he had undergone a biblical ritual and had exhibited
obedience to God. He found himself overcome by peace—a stark
contrast to the frustration and confusion that developed in the
following years. But on the day of his water baptism, he felt like
he had begun afresh all over again. From young Jesse’s perspective,
that moment had belonged to God and him.