The Atonement Child (17 page)

“What options?” Joe shot back.

Ethan’s face reddened. “Look! She gave the ring back. I didn’t ask for it.”

“Didn’t you? Seems to me you asked for more than you got.”

“And you’d like to give me what I deserve, right? Well, go ahead. Take your best shot!” He scraped his chair back and stood.

Leaning back in his chair, Joe considered it, but one long, hard look at his friend’s face erased the anger. Ethan knew only too well what part he’d played in Dynah’s flight. Joe didn’t say anything more. He’d said more than enough already. Who did he think he was to judge and condemn?

Ethan sat down slowly. “It’s over, Joe. Leave well enough alone.”

Joe knew that wasn’t true. It wasn’t over. Never would be. Ethan was going to remember every time he faced a similar situation. And, as a pastor, he was going to face things like this time and again over the years to come.

“You weren’t there,” Ethan said quietly. “You didn’t see the look on her face. You didn’t hear her voice.”

“She’s hurt.”

“And you think I’m not? It doesn’t do any good to mourn over what might have been.”

They ate breakfast in silence. When they finished, Ethan took Joe’s plate and stacked it on his own. “I’ll wash.” He stood and went to the sink, putting in the plug and running hot water.

Joe sat staring at his coffee mug. He read the inscription emblazoned in red:
Seize the Day
. Everything clicked. Like a light going on in his head. “I’ve decided against taking the job in Chicago.”

“Get a better offer?”

“No. I think it’s time I do what I’ve been talking about for the past four years. Round out my education.” He smiled faintly.
Fool! Fool! What chance do you have?
“I got the okay from Cal a month ago.” Divine providence? “I’ve held off making a decision.” Wishful thinking.

“Cal Berkeley?” Ethan put the dishes in the frying pan and ran water over them. “That’ll be culture shock.”

“Yeah,” Joe said, holding his mug up. “This Galilean is heading for Corinth to do a little fishing.”

It didn’t hurt that Berkeley was just across the bay from San Francisco.

Douglas arrived at SFO at 3:40. He’d learned long ago to carry his luggage on board rather than tempt the fates or baggage handlers. He walked down the long corridor among the throng of passengers deplaning or rushing for their flights. Passing the security station, he took the stairs. Some of the passengers who had hurried off the aircraft ahead of him were crowding around the turnstiles. All their rushing was for naught. He’d be in his car and out of the parking garage before the metal monster started moving and vomiting their luggage.

Slowing his pace, Douglas stepped onto the moving walkway. He set his rolling suitcase to one side so others in a hurry could walk past it without difficulty. He stood thinking over his past few days in Los Angeles, mentally checking off what he’d been sent to accomplish. He couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. He’d made all his contacts, presented the proposal. The amended, signed contract was in his briefcase. There’d be a bonus coming from it. So why this premonition of disaster?

He hadn’t slept well last night. Something had been eating at him, rousing the old dreams of mayhem. Why?

His jaw stiffened. Why? He knew why. He just didn’t want to go through it again.

He’d called Hannah as he always did when he was away. Every evening like clockwork. He liked hearing the sound of her voice just before turning in for the night. She used to accuse him of checking up on her. In the beginning, when they were mired in problems, that might have been partly true. He’d needed to know she was there waiting for him. He’d wanted to remind her he loved her more than anyone else. More than that other guy who’d used and abandoned her.

But that reason had been set aside long ago. They’d rebuilt the foundations and remodeled the dwelling of their relationship. They trusted one another now.

Or so he thought.

They’d been married twenty-seven years. She ought to be secure by now. So should he.

His heart still did a flip when he looked at her. The curve of her body, her eyes, the way she moved. There were times when he’d get the same jolt he did the first time he saw her running to catch the city bus. Yet, even after twenty-seven years, there were times when he wondered if she loved him, really loved him. Or if she’d just made do.

Maybe that was it. Maybe it was how much he loved her that left him feeling vulnerable, out in the open with the guns raised and taking aim.

Most of the time, he knew she loved him. She did everything right to prove she did. She’d shown him in a hundred different little ways. Then there would be a flicker of doubt raised by something inconsequential. Something indefinable. He’d feel it in something she’d say, or her tone, see it in a look in her eyes, sense it in the distance she put between them, a stretch of no-man’s-land he had never quite been able to cross. Life with Hannah was a minefield.

Like last night.

They’d talked, but they hadn’t said anything. She was distracted.

And he knew. She was thinking about it again.

It had been so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like to be shut out.

The punch. The shock. The fear-arousing anger. His heart was already pumping with it. He had to push it down, reason it out of existence. Pastor Dan had said to leave it alone. To forget the past. Forgiveness meant never bringing the issue up again. Not even thinking about it. It meant burying what happened so deep it was gone.

Jesus, I’ve tried. I’ve really tried.

What’s more, he thought he’d done it. Now, here it was again, like cracked macadam, the weeds coming up fast and furious, breaking through to the surface.

Picking up his suitcase, Douglas strode along the walkway, stepped off the end, and headed for the elevators. He was in a hurry to get home.

His car was parked on the third level. Pressing the small remote, he shut off the car alarm, opened the trunk, and deposited his suitcase and briefcase. Slamming it, he thumbed the remote to unlock his car door.

What had been going on at home while he was in Los Angeles? Had she been watching some depressing movie that reminded her of the past? Had a friend cried on her shoulder? Had the issue come up in another sermon? Why couldn’t people stop talking about abortion? Why did it have to be in the papers every other day? Why couldn’t everyone shut up about it?

But he knew well enough any number of things could have roused the old pain in her.

He drove up to the pay booth and handed the attendant the parking stub. His stomach clenched with impatience; his fingers drummed the steering wheel. Three days equals sixty bucks, he wanted to say, but the man still had to punch the numbers into the computer and wait for the screen to flash. When it did, Doug was ready with a hundred-dollar bill. It would’ve been cheaper to take a taxi to the airport, but he’d been in a hurry. He got forty in change and a receipt for tax purposes. Tossing both onto the passenger seat, he drove beneath the rising steel arm that had blocked his exit and gunned it down the ramp.

Weaving his car into the traffic leaving the airport, he reached the right lane. As soon as he was on the freeway heading north to San Francisco, he picked up speed, turned on the radio, opened the console, and fed a CD into the player.

Sixties music blasted.
“Come on, baby, light my fire. . . .”

Hannah had lost her taste for it years ago, preferring Christian contemporary, classical, and a host of other music styles, including the New Age instrumentals. He liked Elvis, Ricky Nelson, the Doors, the Eagles, and a dozen others from the same era. He knew every song by heart and loved them all. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe they reminded him of a more innocent time in his life, a time before reality took hold. Or maybe they reminded him of the things he’d survived. Drinking and partying in high school. Joining the Marines as soon as he turned eighteen. Going to Vietnam. Seeing friends die. Coming back to flag burnings and accusations. It still ate at him. All of it.

He veered away from those thoughts. He’d schooled himself to stay clear of them, clear of the bitterness they roused. Still, like thousands of other men who’d fought to save something they couldn’t put words around, he’d felt cheated.

Life hadn’t made sense in those days.

It had all made sense when he saw Hannah. Not once in the early hiatus days had he suspected the battle fatigue she suffered. With a frustrated sigh, he pushed the thoughts of the past away. He stared out the car window, seeking a distraction. Nineteenth Avenue traffic was backed up.

He turned the volume down on the radio and let his mind mull over business transactions and possibilities. It was a habit of long practice, a survival technique. When emotions got too high, better to pour them into something where they were useful. Channel the energy into business, and something productive might develop; pour emotions into a relationship, and you got a range fire.

He’d worked out his next week’s schedule by the time he got home.

Tapping the remote to open the garage door, he noticed the Toyota parked in front of the house, NLC sticker in the window. Dynah! Joy swept over him. His little princess was home. And then it hit him, a tidal wave of cold misgiving.

Oh, Jesus.

She wasn’t due home for another week. Something was wrong.

Hannah was in the kitchen cutting up peeled potatoes and putting them in a pot to boil. She smiled, picking up a towel to dry her hands as she came to him. “Welcome home,” she said, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “You look tired.”

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” He put his things down by the back door, then moved to her. Slipping his hand beneath her hair, he tipped her chin. “I don’t sleep well when you’re not next to me.” He kissed her full on the mouth.

She broke off the kiss and smiled at him. “I was just getting dinner started,” she said, withdrawing. “You must be hungry.”

The kitchen was small enough that she couldn’t go far. Douglas slid his hand down her hip. “Starving.” She moved slightly, a small hitch of tension that told him to back off. Annoyed and covering it, he leaned his hip against the kitchen counter. “I saw Dynah’s car out front. Where is she?”

“Sleeping. She arrived yesterday afternoon, exhausted. She went to bed and hasn’t gotten up yet. I thought it best to let her sleep as long as she needs.”

His muscles tensed, preparing for a blow. It would no doubt be low and dirty. “What’s happened, Hannah?”

“She and Ethan broke up.” Hannah took the pot of potatoes and put it beneath the faucet. “That’s not the worst of it.” She set the pot on the stove and turned it on. “She’s . . .” She hesitated, tense. Lifting her head, she looked at him. Her eyes flickered. “She’s quit school.” She turned away again before Douglas could get a feel for what else was going on. He knew there was more. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach. He watched her gather the potato peelings and put them in the trash bin under the sink.

“Why’d they break up?”

“She didn’t want to talk about it. She’s pretty upset.” She turned on the tap to rinse her hands.

“Obviously,” he said dryly. “She’d hardly quit school and drive twenty-five-hundred miles over a minor tiff.” He gave a sardonic laugh. “Well, I guess we’re going to save ourselves thousands of dollars on a wedding.” He couldn’t believe he said it. Sarcasm, cutting deep and drawing blood.

Hannah turned her head and looked at him, eyes blazing. Slapping off the tap, she snatched up the towel. He’d seen that look before. It wasn’t annoyance. It was something deep and violent.

Anger pumped through him in immediate, conditioned response. Not for any particular reason but because of a multitude all tangled together in a mass of confusion, wrath, and frustration. “I’m going to take my things upstairs,” he said before she opened her mouth. He retrieved his briefcase and suitcase. He needed his hands full, or he was going to break something.

“I hope you won’t say something like that to Dynah.”

Douglas turned, furious. “What do you think? That I want to hurt my daughter worse than she’s been hurt?”

No. He just wanted to hurt
her
.

“She broke it off with him, Douglas. Not the other way around.”

“Then she must have had a good reason,” he said coldly. “Better she gets out of it now than marries him and finds out she’s made the biggest mistake of her life.” He saw her wince, felt it through his whole body, and knew what he’d done. He hadn’t meant it the way she took it, but there it was. Fallout from another war. With another man. He could say he loved her, but it wouldn’t help. Not right then. Maybe later, after she’d had time alone in the kitchen to lick old wounds.

Douglas didn’t want to stand and watch.

He moved upstairs quickly. Shouldering the upstairs bedroom door open, he slammed his briefcase on top of the dresser. Slinging his suitcase on the bed, he uttered a soft curse. It took him all of five minutes to unpack as he launched two suits into a chair for the cleaners, dumped underwear and socks into the laundry basket, and heaved the shaving case under the sink.