Providence (15 page)

“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.”

~
S
IXTEEN
~

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.

“Can you believe it?” Arthur fumed. “He’s twisted everything. If I wasn’t concerned about creating more bad press, I’d sue.”

There was indignation in Arthur’s voice, but he didn’t ask me for an explanation or a denial. Wasn’t he wondering about the accusations? Didn’t he want to know if any of the statements were true?

Two shootings …

“People don’t believe everything they read.”

“Jack, wake up. Your reputation has just been assassinated. Do you understand that? Not to mention your good standing. Someone has done this to you. Something has to be done. The college will suffer, the program will suffer, and you’ve got to be thinking about your memoir!” Arthur was as mad as a hornet’s nest swatted by a Chicago newspaper.

“I’m sure it will die down soon. How far can this go, anyway?”

“How far can this thing go? Think California wildfire during a long summer drought. The story’s already running all over the wire services this morning, the same week your face is on the cover of
Time
. Papers will absolutely run it, and by this time tomorrow, you’ll be all over the TV, too.”

I stood over the table rereading the story that opened my life like a can of sardines. Why was this happening? Bud Abbott was wrong about my commitment to Norwood and my normally spartan lifestyle. Surely everyone would understand this.

“We’ll have to do a press conference. You’ll need to be there, Jack. We can’t let this stand. We’ll take every accusation this hit-and-run jockey has made and stick them back down his throat.”

“I’m not doing a press conference.”

“I don’t see any other way around it.”

“One story isn’t enough to make me dash for the nearest microphone to start defending myself.”

“Jack, you don’t have a clue how juicy this stuff is. It’s blood in the water to sharks. This is just the lightning before the storm. The thunder won’t even get here until tomorrow. If they find out more, Jack, your name will be in the paper for weeks, months.”

I wanted to pack Mr. Duroth’s hand-tailored suits and flee the scene of the crime. In my old life, I’d still be sleeping. The old Brookstone alarm wasn’t set to ring for another hour. But fame had found me. Hiding from conspicuousness only inflated voyeuristic interest. As much as I had enjoyed the taste of the good life in my hotel room, I preferred the simple life. Waking up to brew a pot of coffee. Drinking orange juice straight from the carton dressed only in my pajamas. Looking forward to the connection I’d feel at church with God and people. These were the things I cared about. There was never anything scheduled on Sunday. Just plans to heat up a chicken dinner left by Mrs. Hernandez and watch football. I wanted that life back but knew instinctively that was going to be difficult if not impossible to find in light of Bud Abbott’s little story.

“It’s almost eight o’clock,” I told Arthur. “I’m going to church. We can continue this conversation later this afternoon, or tonight if needed.”

“If needed? You have to skip church and get up here to Indy as quickly as possible for some serious strategizing. We have more work to hack through today than we have time to hew.”

I closed my eyes, overwrought with the immensity of this developing circumstance. It was one thing having my name scandalized in the paper, but I could see visions of the fallout. The effect it could have on the college, the program, the people in Norwood. An enemy was attempting to pull me off course. I blew out my breath and fought the first small battle, the one for my will.

“No,” I said. “I’ll call you after church.”

“Jack, listen—”

I said good-bye to Arthur and hung up the phone. He was out of control … So was Bud Abbott. Arthur’s motivation was the preservation of his income stream—my next book. But what had provoked Bud Abbott?

I showered and dressed in a flurry, folding the clothes Mr. Duroth had given to me and placing them in a plastic bag, the only makeshift luggage I could find. Within fifteen minutes I was putting on my sunglasses and walking toward the elevators, my oasis of relaxation over. I’d miss being so high above the noise I couldn’t hear the questions, but not those coming from the poor. It was the questions from the media I wanted to escape.

I rode the elevator down seven stories alone, anxious to get to church, where I could experience God’s presence washing over me like cool river water over smooth stones.

When the elevator doors opened, two local news crews ambushed me with shoulder-mounted video cameras and blinding lights. A mob of television reporters rushed toward me.

“Mr. Clayton, is it true you’re living here at the Providence Hyatt? Are you thinking of buying it?”

“Mr. Clayton, how do you respond to allegations that you’re taking advantage of the poor here in Providence?”

“Mr. Clayton, is it true you’ve been recently fired from your job?”

I cut a path through the center of the crowd, and predictably they followed me step by step into the parking garage. I was never happier in my life to not own a Cadillac. My 2000 Jeep with the broken side mirror and missing radio was parked near the door, and I climbed up into it. I started the engine and backed out, causing the cluster of reporters to break into smaller scurrying groups.

I entered back into the shelterless
real
world through news vans plastered with photos of their smiling six o’clock news teams. I turned the Jeep up Ames Road, glancing in the rearview mirror to see if I was being followed. I chose not to drive home, expecting to find more reporters there. Peter’s house was four miles out of town. I hoped he was still home.

I pulled around back and cut the engine. Through the kitchen window, I could see Peter looking out at me, amusement on his face. I failed to see the humor. The past week had been a long walk down the sterile corridors of the Green Mile for me. Peter saw it differently, as though these were merely the steps Jesus
wanted
me to take.

“You know, for a guy who doesn’t like attention, you sure attract a lot of it.” Peter met me at the back door.

“This is no time for jokes, Peter. First the book, then Arthur’s deceptions, then a phone call from this reporter in Chicago. And this morning I was ambushed by reporters. I can’t think of one thing in all this that is in the least bit funny.”

“I’m not laughing at you. This morning you have my sympathy. How about some coffee?”

“What time is it? Are you going to church?”

“Relax, there’s plenty of time. Sit down, chill.”