Drowning of Stephan Jones (12 page)

Heading toward the kitchen was the click-clack of high heels as they struck, perhaps harder than usual, against the polished hardwood floor. “Hello, love,” the familiar voice sang out. “I’m home.”

“In the kitchen, Mom.”

Judith entered the furthermost room in the house, all the while untying the big red silk bow at her neck. “Hmmm,” she
stopped short, before lifting her head back to better take in the aromatic aroma. “Hungarian goulash. My favorite!”

“Uh, not quite, it’s beef stew.”

“Hmm, beef stew, my favorite.”

Carla ground some fresh peppercorns into the simmering pot before turning to kiss her mother on the cheek. “Why do you suppose it is that I question your credibility?”

Judith shrugged. “Sure beats me.”

“You know, you’re home really early tonight? Dinner won’t be ready for at least an hour.”

“I had to get out of there! There was no way I could hang on until closing,” she said, trying to stretch out the stress from the back of her head and neck. “Don’t rush dinner. I’m going to sit in the tub for an hour, which should be enough time to wash the nonsense of the day from my body, if not from my spirit.”

Carla replaced the heavy lid on the pot before more carefully appraising her mother’s condition. “Sounds ominous. What’s up? I thought the burning issue over
Catcher in the Rye
and
The Grapes of Wrath
had now been settled.”

Judith nodded. “Oh, that
has
been settled, albeit to nobody’s satisfaction. Forty-seven books may not be displayed on the shelf, but they may be checked out
if
specifically requested. No, what’s bothering me now is something else. And that happens to be the very latest, up-to-the-minute nonsense of the day!”

“Mom, how come so much happens to you? Makes me wonder if Mr. Peters, you know Karen Peters’s daddy, has as much trouble running his big ol’ WalMart as you have running your little library?”

With something more than usual caution, Judith eyed her daughter for signs that she was about to become critical. Considering that this was one of her harshest days on the job ever, she knew that the last thing she needed was one more person
pouring rubbing alcohol into her open wounds by telling her that she was not doing good work. Or, as in today’s case, that she
was
doing “the devil’s work.” With slow and deliberate motions, Judith bent to pull off first one polished black pump and then the other before closing her eyes and pressing her back against the jamb of the kitchen door.

“Are you going to tell me?” Carla asked, her voice bright with unmet curiosity. “What happened?”

The librarian’s eyes popped open and she found herself faintly smiling. It made her feel a bit better to realize that, yes, her daughter really was interested in her experiences. Also, she made a private note that she ought to be ashamed of herself for jumping to the terrible conclusion that her own flesh and blood was ready to pounce on her momentary weakness. “What happened to me was that I received an unexpected visit from the CCML.”

“The what? Never heard of them.”

“The Concerned Citizens for a Moral Library. It’s a new organization whose mission is to purify libraries.” Judith sighed as though she were growing too weak by the minute for much further discussion.

“And?”

“After an extremely unpleasant conversation, I asked them to leave.”

“What do you think will happen?” Carla asked.

“I suppose they’ll put pressure on the city fathers to get rid of me, and/or closely monitor me, waiting for me to trip up, anything that could help get me fired.”

For a period of time, both women were quiet. Each needed something from the other but both needed a bit of time to figure out precisely what that need was. Judith realized that she needed a little tender loving concern. Why, for God’s sake, should she be ashamed of it? After all, nobody gets too old or too independent for a little reassuring warmth from a loved
one, do they?

“Mom,” Carla said at last, “I know you’ve dedicated your life to standing up for the right thing. There’s nothing wrong with that, but why, please tell me why, is it always
you
? Can’t you give someone else a chance to play Joan of Arc for a change? If that’s the way they want the library to be—well, they
do
represent the taxpayers, don’t they? I mean, how much harm would it do if you’d swallow a little of your personal pride and do what everybody else does? For once in your life, couldn’t you do what everybody else does? Just go along with the crowd?”

Chapter 13

J
UST BEFORE THE
supper hour on Thursday evening. Stephan drove the monster of a van into the practically empty parking lot of the Rachetville Baptist Church. Next to a late-model, black Lincoln Town Car with a clergy emblem bolted to its license plate, he cut the motor.

Nodding toward the oversized automobile, Frank asked, “Who was it that once said that man cannot serve both God and money, too?” Then shaking his head in obvious frustration over his inability to remember, he added mischievously, “Well, anyway, it’s a fair assumption that that statement didn’t originate with the Reverend Mr. Wheelwright.”

As the men in lockstep walked toward the church’s side entrance, Stephan turned his head toward his companion. “Trouble with you, Frank, is that you come from a long line of nonbelievers so you don’t have experience dealing with men of God. Do us both a favor, and work at keeping your skepticism to yourself. Try being nice and charming and I promise you this: You’re going to be in for a real surprise.”

As soon as the secretary ushered the men into the small office with the large cross, the Reverend Roland Wheelwright, wearing a smile as wide as the whole out-of-doors, marched briskly around his desk and extended his outstretched hand. “Well, well, gentlemen, how nice to see you all. Please come on in and sit yourselves down, and tell me to what do I owe the pleasure of your company.”

“It was certainly kind of you to see us at such short notice,” said Stephan.

Frank added, “Yes, thank you, sir. We know how busy you must be; we appreciate it.”

The preacher manufactured a series of little heh-heh-heh laughs. “I’m never too busy to take care of God’s own people,
no sir! I might also add that I’m not too busy to notice that you gentlemen never once returned to our church. Aren’t you receiving our mailings? I distinctly remember taking your name and address, but I’m not certain if I gave it to Mrs. Mullens—she’s the church secretary, and quite an efficient one at that. Been with this church for fifteen years—no, I take that back. I wouldn’t want to lie!” He added a few more of his heh-heh-hehs.

“She’s been with us almost two years longer than I’ve been the pastor of this church and I’ve already been here for fourteen years! My goodness! My goodness!” he said, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “How time does fly!”

“Uh, Reverend Wheelwright,” Frank said, interrupting the minister’s soliloquy. “We came here today to discuss an urgent matter which we believe you will be able to help us with.”

“I trust you came to the right place because helping two such fine Christian gentlemen as yourselves would be a pleasure, truly a very great pleasure.”

Stephan leaned forward in his armchair. “The reason we came to see you today is because we—Frank and I—are being constantly harassed by a member of your congregation.” The thick, drooping lids of the preacher suddenly raised themselves.

“Somebody in my congregation? Are you sure? Why, who in my congregation would do such a terrible thing!?”

Frank peered directly into those freshly opened eyes before answering, “The teenage son of the owner of Harris’s Hardware Store, Andy Harris.”

The minister craned his neck forward. “You mean to tell me that Larry and Elna Harris’s boy is playing little jokes on you men?”

“No, Reverend Wheelwright,” replied Frank sharply. “Not at all
little
jokes. He has written letters,” he explained, holding toward the preacher a packet of crinkly blue-gray envelopes.
On the upper left-hand corner of each envelope were the oversized letters A.H., RACHETVILLE, ARKANSAS. “All fifteen of these letters are signed ‘Avenging Hero.’ We’ve received dozens of obscene and threatening phone calls. They—”

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” he intoned. “Come now! Let’s reason together. You say these letters are signed ‘Avenging Hero’ but not actually ‘Andy Harris.’ You’re receiving
incoming
telephone calls and since you did not actually
see
the actual faces of the callers, I can almost guarantee that this is nothing more than a rather unfortunate case of mistaken identity.”

“Reverend Wheelwright!” cried out both Frank and Stephan at more or less the same moment.

Reverend Wheelwright raised his hands as though he were stopping traffic. “Please ... please give me the courtesy of allowing me to explain exactly why I said what I did. First of all, I have personally known and admired the Harrises ever since I’ve been here at Rachetville Baptist—fourteen years. They’re fine, fine people, religious people! And as far as their son—well, Andy is a good boy. Neat as a pin and just as religious as they come. If only all young men were like Andy Harris, it would be a different world. I guarantee you that; it would be a
very
different world, indeed!”

“Mr. Wheelwright, I can understand and even appreciate your natural reluctance to believe something bad about someone you like,” explained Frank. “But let me say that there is no question, absolutely no question whatsoever, about Andy Harris’s involvement. He with two of his friends, Douglas Crawford and Michael Horten, smashed a steaming pizza in Stephan’s face, causing him to suffer very painful first degree burns. The harassment has gotten worse and continues to this day.”

This time the clergyman seemed to sit up a little straighter to stare unblinkingly at Stephan. “You don’t mean to say that
our
Andy Harris did that to you!?”

“Yes, Reverend Wheelwright,” Stephan answered returning his gaze. “That’s
exactly
what he did to me. Why else would we be here?”

The aging man ran his fingers through his fine crop of gray hair. “Hard to believe that boy would do something like that. I can tell you one thing, he’s certainly carrying his fun and games far too far.”

Both Frank and Stephan allowed themselves the bare beginnings of a smile, but it was Stephan who spoke. “So do you think you could help us ... put a stop to this?”

The minister offered a rapid-fire response. “Consider it done!”

A deep sigh of relief was audibly heard coming from either Frank or Stephan, or maybe both, but it was Frank who picked up and carefully nurtured the conversational ball. “What, if I may ask, do you intend to do?”

Mr. Wheelwright looked up from the heavy gold insignia ring he had been turning round and round on a pudgy fourth finger where there was a virtual garden of coarse, black hair. “Naturally, I’ll phone the boy, ask him to come in for a little chat. Then I’ll ask him to confess his transgressions before his pastor ... and his Lord. Finally I’ll make him repent those sins before his pastor ... and his Lord, making him promise to behave himself.”

Stephan shot an I-told-you-so look in Frank’s direction before rising to his feet. He rebuttoned the middle button of his blue blazer before reaching out to share a final farewell shake with his host. “I really appreciate your willingness to help us, Reverend Wheelwright, and I hope that some day soon I’ll be able to do something for you. All you have to do is ask.”

As the minister escorted the men out of his office into the large adjoining social hail, he said, “I’m going to take you up on your offer to return my favor, Mr. Jones, and sooner than you think.”

Frank interjected. “I assure you, that’s okay with us, and that the offer my partner made holds equally true for me, too.”

“Wonderful!” exulted Mr. Wheelwright while heartily patting both men on their backs. “Wonderful! But first let me clear up the little misunderstanding that has developed between you and the Harris boy and then I’m going to take you up on the favor that you offered. I’m going to ask you both to join our church and to become just two more people who are God’s people.”

Stephan threw Frank a pleading look, and then Frank shrugged mightily before answering. “Well I guess—oh, sure, why not?”

The delighted preacher slapped their backs and squeezed their arms while exclaiming, “That’s wonderful, really wonderful, and I’m truly gratified that two fine Christian gentlemen such as yourselves will join our fellowship.” He then rubbed the top of his full head of steel-gray hair as a puzzled look crept across his face. “There is one thing, though, that for the life of me I just can’t figure out.”

Stephan, who by now had his arm draped around the preacher’s shoulder, asked, “And what is that, Reverend Wheelwright?”

“Two such fine men as you. ...” The minister shook his head in disbelief. “Well, for the life of me, I just can’t understand what Andy Harris, or anybody else, could possibly find about you two Christian gentlemen to dislike.”

The quiet became deafening. What normally could not be heard at all was now heard with excruciating volume: three men breathing in and breathing out; the rattle of an aging pickup truck a block and a half away on lower Prescott Avenue; even the sounds of Mrs. Mullens’s ballpoint pen as it rolled effortlessly across the cash receivable book.

Frank swallowed back a sudden excess of saliva. “You mean ... you really don’t know?”

Mr. Wheelwright’s face was a study in innocence. “Know? Know what?”

“What Frank is trying to tell you,” choked Stephan, while self-consciously dropping his arm from the preacher’s shoulder, “is that Frank and I are ... are a couple.”

The minister’s bushy eyebrows skipped halfway up his forehead. “You don’t mean to stand there and tell me that you two ... two Christian gentlemen ...” He paused as though he didn’t know what to say next, or maybe it was only that he paused because he was too stunned to say what he
thought
ought to come next.