The Road to Mercy (25 page)

Josh’s Christian music record label occupied offices in Brentwood, about twenty minutes south, so Josh rarely spent time in this neighborhood. Yet there was something about
Music Row, the original hub of the Nashville music industry, that always reignited the fire of his desire for making it in the music business. Hundreds of thousands of dreams had been realized—or lost—on this street.

Josh opened the door and entered the reception area. A beautiful blonde girl sat at the large wooden desk. He guessed from her youthful appearance that she was an intern from either Belmont or Middle Tennessee State University.

“Hi! Can I help you?” The young girl’s enthusiasm confirmed his intern hunch. Lifers were usually more guarded, and with good reason. Some unusual characters traipsed up and down Music Row.

“I’m here for Clint Garrett. I’m writing with him today.”

“Josh Harrison?”

“Yes.” He offered a smile.

“Clint called to say he’s running a few minutes late. Please, have a seat.” She pointed to a sitting area filled with antiques and wing-backed leather chairs. “May I bring you water, coffee, anything?”

“No thanks.” Josh picked out a chair and a Billboard magazine to read.

Less than ten minutes later, Clint strolled into the room, having entered through the back hallway of the building. No doubt he had a reserved parking place in the back. He had made a lot of money for Dixon Mason during the past few years.

“Hey there.” Clint grinned as he sauntered over to Josh.

“Man, you’re looking good.” Josh stood to shake his hand. Clint looked just as he remembered. A bit older, perhaps, and a little less cocky. But he was the same good-looking man who had captured the affection of country music fans everywhere. And he had retained that fascination, despite the decline of the
music business and Clint’s “bad boy” reputation. Most theories were that the latter had been a contributor to his success.

“It’s great to see you.” Clint slapped him on the back. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself lately. I saw the awards a couple of nights ago.”

“Thanks.” Josh’s cheeks warmed. “You’re not doing too bad yourself.”

“I’m doing okay,” Clint demurred. “I heard you got married.”

“I did, a little over a year ago. We’re having a baby in June.”

“Congratulations, Bear.”

Josh laughed. He hadn’t been called by his nickname since he worked with Clint several years ago. It took him back to a less complicated time in life.

“Thanks. We’re excited. So how have you been?”

“Let’s go on into the writing room, and we can catch up there.” Clint nodded down a long hallway. “That way.”

Josh followed Clint through the corridor. A richly colored Oriental rug with hues of burgundy, navy, and dark green ran its length. As did dark, expensive-looking mahogany woodwork. Gold and platinum albums and BMI, ASCAP, and SESAC multimillion sales awards lined the deep green walls.

“Nice place.” Josh ran his hand along the chair rail, as he followed his friend and former employer into a small but comfortable-looking room.

“Yeah, Mason has made some bucks in his days. I’m not sure he’s enjoying it much now. He has cancer, you know.” Clint’s expression softened. “I hate it for him.”

Just hearing the word
cancer
brought back unwanted memories for Josh. His mother had found it to be an unmerciful foe. “I’m sorry to hear it. I hope he regains his health.”

Clint nodded. “Let’s talk about good things. Make yourself at home while I unpack my guitar. There’s a fridge in the corner. Help yourself to a drink.”

Josh surveyed his surroundings. The room reminded him of concert hall dressing quarters, comfortable yet utilitarian. Paintings of sailboats and beach scenes hung on ocean blue walls for inspiration. An overstuffed leather sofa commandeered one corner. Two leather Captain’s chairs flanked the fireplace. A substantial glass-and-wood coffee table anchored a plush rug to the pristine wood floor. Josh recognized the wood as pine, trees common to his home state of Alabama.

Most of his high school friends had grown up to work in the sawmills or paper mills. He had left a lot behind, but he had come a long way. Here he was cowriting with Clint Garrett. God had humbled him with the opportunity to live the life he had only once envisioned. Even better.

Josh watched Clint tune a vintage model Gibson guitar. Not long ago, Josh had been selling T-shirts for this man, the brightest star in the world of country music. Yet, Clint had called him for a writing appointment today.

“Got any good song ideas, Bear?” Clint looked up from the guitar, his blue eyes clear—clearer than Josh had remembered.

“I don’t write many country songs.” Josh hesitated. “I do have one idea. It’s a play on the words dog and dawg. My working title is ‘Old Country Dawg.’ ”

“Hmmm. Interesting.” Clint grinned. “Let me throw out an idea. It’s a song about forgiveness. Forgiveness that’s bigger than the stars and smaller than a mustard seed.” He strummed a G-chord.

“A Christian song?”

“Yes. That’s why I called you. I thought we could write a few Christian tunes together. Are you willing?”

“Well . . . sure. That’s what I do best. I just didn’t—”

“Didn’t think I cared much about Christian stuff?” Clint finished his sentence for him and smiled. “I didn’t until about a year ago. I realized my life had gone down the wrong path. A long way down.” He studied Josh’s reaction. “I hope you can forgive me if I ever offended you when we were traveling together. I did some pretty crazy things—”

“No . . .” It was Josh’s turn to interrupt. “Never, man. You were always good to me. I’m glad to hear you’ve made some changes, though.” Josh hesitated. “You were doing some destructive things. I prayed for you. I prayed that you would get through it all.”

“I knew you did. It used to make me angry when you told me that.” Clint tweaked the tuning on his guitar. “But you always stood up for what you believed. I respected that, even if I didn’t agree with you at the time.”

As Clint continued to work with the strings, Josh noticed his wedding band was gone. “Are you and Kari still together?” he asked.

“Yes. Well, yes and no. We’re trying to get back together. I did a lot of things to hurt her. I’m hoping she is willing to give me another chance.”

“I’ll pray for both of you,” Josh told him.

Clint hit a discordant flourish. “Hey, we’re here to make a living writing songs so we can feed our families. Let’s get to work.”

By the end of the afternoon they had completed Clint’s song idea and begun a second based on one of Josh’s ideas. They agreed to get back together in a few weeks and finish it up.

“It’s great seeing you,” Josh told him as they stepped outside onto the porch.

“A divine appointment,” Clint said and then grinned.

A few minutes later Josh brushed moisture from his eyes as he drove away. Seeing the changes in Clint’s life, and having the prayers he had prayed for his friend come full circle, gave him hope. Hope that he would get through what lay ahead in his own life. Whatever it might be.

Ben pulled the door slowly until a sharp click sounded summarily. Losing a patient was never easy. It was even more difficult when the person was so full of life. Frank Joseph had been a vibrant man about Ben’s own age. He’d had a healthy heart, strong lungs, and an athletic build. But the tumor in his brain had been stronger.

Fate was a curious thing. It took many in the prime of life, while others sprinted across the finish line in triple digits.

Ben shook his head. The Joseph family appeared to be taking Frank Joseph’s death in stride. Religious people intrigued Ben, especially Christians, the quiet, faith-filled ones, whose beliefs were eternalized not externalized. From the beginning, each member of the Joseph family had expressed peace about his or her husband, father, and grandfather’s destiny—whatever it might be.

“God will work it out for the best,” Mrs. Joseph had said one afternoon when Ben explained the seriousness of her husband’s condition.

“We know God loves Dad even more than we do,” his daughter had added before wiping her eyes with a tissue. “We trust the outcome, even if the unthinkable happens.”

How could people believe that God cared enough about them to trust their lives to him? Was that faith or ego?

More likely hope beyond rationality. Or was it?

A beautiful, spring afternoon greeted Ben when he stepped into the hospital parking lot. The rain had passed for now. He would grab a bite to eat before heading to the countryside for a twenty-mile bike ride.

He set out for Elliston Place Soda Shop, only a few blocks away from the hospital. It was one of his favorite places for lunch. Comfort food for the difficult days.

Ben entered the diner through one of its double metal doors and took a seat in a vacant booth near the back of the tiny dining room. Within a few minutes, a young waitress appeared at his table, took his order, and returned with a thick, chocolate milkshake. Why not indulge and ride his bike a few extra miles?

Sipping his drink, he settled back into the creaky, green vinyl booth, allowing the ambiance to envelope him. The place hadn’t changed in all his years coming here. It was something akin to a time warp. The restaurant still had its original—as in never remodeled—fifties décor, and that included miniature Wurlitzer jukeboxes mounted on the wall above each booth.

Ben flipped through the extensive selection of fifties, sixties, and seventies pop and country music. He had never paid much attention to popular music, and none of the titles meant much to him.

Turning his eyes to a table across the room, he watched two college-aged girls sitting and talking. Their books were piled high in front of them, and they laughed between sips of soft
drinks. One of the young women, who was especially attractive, offered a provocative smile and then looked away.

At a table nearby, a drawn looking man dressed in a suit and tie scribbled on a yellow pad while his lunch companion talked. The second man, who wore a bright blue cowboy shirt embroidered with white and gold guitars, droned on and on. Within a few minutes, the first man pulled a camera from his briefcase and snapped a photo of the would-be, or could-already-be, famous country star.

A few businessmen and hospital staffers sat at the fountain bar, gulping down food. Some stared at cell phones. Others read newspapers. Each seemed to be as lost as he, blindly following a dream and not taking time to question what life was really about.

He had achieved his two main goals in life. To leave his grandfather’s house and to become a doctor so he could help others. The first had been selfish, so he could only hope the second bought him
teshuvah
, or atonement.

Grandfather would gasp at his irreverence. Ben’s rejection of the Jewish faith had dug an insurmountable chasm between them. But the past could not be mended. Grandfather had passed away at home, quietly in his sleep, with Mama Ruth by his side.

Now she was gone. The official diagnosis had been heart failure. However, Ben believed she had died from a broken heart. Despite their differences, his grandmother had been devoted to her husband, Levi Ruben.

Pangs of guilt overtook Ben when he thought about the number of times he could have flown to New York during the past year to see his grandmother but didn’t. The two times he had gone she had welcomed him with open arms. And she had told him more about his parents during those trips than she ever dared to mention when Levi Ruben was alive.

The visits, and the information, had been both cathartic and confusing. Especially when she talked about the circumstances surrounding his parents’ deaths.

He had always known that they had left Judaism for Christianity. But he hadn’t known until this year that they had become evangelists for their new faith.

“I didn’t want to confuse you more than you already were, Isaac,” Mama Ruth had said to him when they sat together at her dining room table. “And I knew you had the spark of a rebel spirit in you, just like your mother. I saw how your grandfather’s strict rules set you off, just like they did her. I didn’t want to lose you too.”

Mama Ruth had barely been able to walk at that point, but she had lifted herself from the chair and shuffled to the old mahogany breakfront. She pulled a leather-bound book from the drawer and laid it on the table in front of him. Two words were inscribed on the cover.
Holy Bible
.

“This was your mother’s Christian Bible,” she told him. “It’s yours now. She would have wanted you to have it. It was one of the few personal effects returned to us after she died. I have kept it for this time in your life.”

Mama Ruth opened the book and took an aged and yellow newspaper clipping from between its thin pages. The article, from a St. Louis paper, had told about the revival Ben’s parents were to hold in Missouri. The story had been dated October 11, 1959.

They had been on their way to that revival when their plane went down.

“I hope this helps you, son.” His fragile grandmother said, tears running down her cheek. “I know you are searching.”

It had only helped to confuse him
.

“Here ya go.” The waitress set a burger down in front of him. The meal looked and smelled delicious. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, thank you,” he said.

Ben looked across the room, where two women joined hands and prayed quietly before consuming their food. Perhaps that was something his parents and siblings would have done.

He picked up his napkin, placed it in his lap, and prayed silently.
If you can hear me, God, please make yourself known to me
.

Standing in the doorway of the guest bathroom, Beth watched Alex paint a smile on her lips with crimson-colored liner. The fiery hue set off her friend’s creamy complexion with paint-by-number freckles and her beautiful red hair, the color of the sassafras tea Beth’s grandmother used to make.

“So you have a crush on my doctor, ‘the Jewish version of Simon Cowell?’ ”