Authors: Catherine Palmer
“Sure they do.”
“Listen, the product I import is nameless, faceless and hopeless.”
“Product,” Bering scoffed. “I got three little products of my own. You think I ain’t got no morals, but at least I pay child support. I see ’em, too, when I can. I got a boy, and I’m gonna see that he don’t grow up like his daddy. He’s goin’ to college, my boy is. And if anyone like you tries to mess with him, let me tell ya—”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” He stood and clutched his hair, tugging so hard it felt as though his scalp might peel off. “You don’t understand, and you never will, so just shut up! Get your things, and come with me.”
“Where we goin’? I’m doin’ this my way, y’know. The lady goes down first. The kids, I do later.”
“You’ll do what I say when I say it.” He gave his shoulders a shake to try and relieve the tension that had knotted his muscles. “I’m taking you to the club. I want to show you the kid who could inform on me. You’ll do her first and the woman second. And you’ll take care of these two here at the house by midnight. In the meantime, I’ll be packing my suitcases. I’m taking a well-deserved vacation.”
“S
o, Jim Slater says Jack Smith is from Arkansas,” Sam commented. He peered into the red-and-white box and selected a large piece of crispy fried chicken. Placing it next to the mound of mashed potatoes, heap of slaw and buttered roll on his plate, he nodded as if finally satisfied with the arrangement. “I’d bet my bottom dollar he’s from Boston.”
Ana had observed Sam’s elaborate lunch preparations with interest. Though initially she had objected to a picnic with him in Forest Park, she finally relented. For some reason she couldn’t quite understand, she liked Sam’s company. He was good-looking, of course, but that had never been a priority for her. Maybe his military bearing attracted her—the staunch adherence to his moral code, the determined enforcement of rules and regulations, the firm devotion to his goals. She certainly admired those things about the man.
But maybe more than anything, she felt safe with Sam Hawke. Not just physically safe, though that mattered a great deal. But she instinctively believed he could be trusted with every private, hidden thing she chose to share. She knew he would never tease, hurt, or manipulate her. He would never use her.
These qualities were good, Ana acknowledged to herself. But they disturbed her, too. She didn’t want to admire or enjoy or desire any man. Not now. Not ever. Long ago, she had made up her mind on that. Watching her sister flit from one affair to another—desperately seeking some kind of fulfillment from the promiscuity to which she had become addicted—made Ana even more determined to steer clear of the relationship minefield.
And yet, she had liked Sam’s kiss. More than liked it, she had responded to it with a deep, warm, unfolding welcome. As though it had been a rain shower after drought. Or a homecoming after long years in prison.
“I knew a guy from Boston,” he was saying as he tore open his fork, napkin and condiment packet. “Spent three months with him in Iraq. He talked just like that Smith fellow.”
“All the man said to us was hello and that he didn’t know Honduran immigration law,” Ana pointed out.
“He said ‘Good to know you’ and ‘I don’t know anything about that.’” Sam’s blue eyes shone in the early-afternoon sunlight that filtered through the leaves of the oak tree under which they sat. “He’s from Boston, I’m telling you.”
She chose a chicken leg. “Okay, Boston. Whatever. You’re from Wyoming, and I’m from Texas. People move.”
“Yeah, but how come Jim never mentioned having a branch in Arkansas? He’s told me a lot about his agency, and he never said anything about that. And he
was
trying to evade your questions, by the way.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.” Sam reached out and took Ana’s hand. “I’ll ask the blessing.”
As he bowed his head and spoke words of gratitude to God, Ana pondered the amazing power of human touch. Since leaving home, she hadn’t made it a custom to say grace in public, and she certainly never held anyone’s hand while praying. Now she realized how much she missed both. Sam’s heartfelt offering touched her deeply. When he finished the prayer, she almost regretted its end.
“I’m curious about something,” she said as he began to eat. “What do you think God is like?”
“I know what He’s like. The life and teachings of Jesus Christ couldn’t be more clear.”
“Love?”
“Power.”
Ana picked up a piece of chicken. “I don’t agree. I see God as my savior. My shepherd.”
“You’re not a little sheep, Ana. God is a vigilant protector. His character is that of a warrior.”
“He’s my authority, sure. But I don’t see Him the way you do—as some sort of drill sergeant.”
Sam gazed up into the treetops for a moment. “Maybe He’s both, Ana. When we need love, He’s there for us. When we need power, He provides that, too. I don’t look to humans for either.”
“No? Not even in church?”
“Some of the most ungodly people in the world hold positions of authority in our churches, Ana. God put His Spirit inside us to provide discernment. You can’t trust everyone.”
Ana grabbed her soda and took a drink, hoping to wash down the lump that had risen suddenly in her throat. “I know better,” she whispered, “but I guess I’ve spent most of my life looking for someone to trust.”
Sam eyed her. “I said you can’t trust
everyone,
Ana. But there are some reliable, honorable Believers on this earth. You can trust those people. I’m one of them.”
“According to you.” She tried to force a smile. “Maybe you’re right, Sam. I’m not sure. I haven’t ever known anyone like you.”
“That’s how I felt when I met Terell. He lived his faith. He was all about surrendering his own desires and being obedient to God’s guidance. I knew God…Terell introduced me to Jesus Christ.”
“But you said he had messed up his life while he was playing pro basketball.”
“Christian faith is a straight and narrow path, and Terell decided to take a major detour. Women, two big houses, a fleet of luxury cars, nightclubbing. Drugs. Booze. He was sinking fast. As he tells it, God finally got his attention by throwing his sorry hide into a jail cell.”
Ana straightened, recalling her suspicions about Terell’s behavior at Haven. “What did he do?”
“Drugs. Steroids. Gambling on his games. You name it. He got kicked out of the league, lost his houses and cars, emptied his bank accounts to pay attorneys. He was living with his mama, working at a convenience store and playing pickup games on a playground court when I got back from Iraq and went looking for him.”
Sam stuck his fork in the mashed potatoes. “By that time, Terell had focused himself in the right direction. He and I talked a lot during those months. We decided we wanted to do what we could to change not only our lives, but also the lives of others.”
“So running Haven is your ‘good deed’ ladder into heaven?”
“There’s no ladder like that, woman, and you know it. Surrender is what gets a person into heaven.”
“We’re back to your drill sergeant God.”
“That’s right, and there are only two armies, Ana. You have to choose. As a Christian, you’ve given God control of your life whether you like it or not. If you keep trying to manage it yourself, you’ll end up like Terell did. Or worse. Homeless. Hopeless. Helpless.”
Ana ate in silence, unable to speak. Better than most people, she understood helplessness. She had battled it all her adult life, fighting to hold on to a sense of control. The idea of total surrender frightened her. Yet, Sam spoke with such confidence. His life gave every evidence that what he said was true. In her heart, she knew that total surrender to Jesus Christ’s authority would bring a deep peace and a security she had never known. Yet, she wasn’t ready to hand Sam the victory.
“Do you believe surrender to God is the answer to the problems the children at Haven face?” she asked.
“Sure I do.”
“I can’t agree with that, Sam.
Physical healing
requires a doctor. Tenisha needs to work with a physical therapist for her cerebral palsy, and Gerald ought to have braces. There’s no excuse for the emotional trauma that little boy is enduring—and he’s taking out his hurt on others.
Psychological healing
can’t happen without counseling. Those children need to revisit the past and work on the issues that could be stumbling blocks. As for
spiritual healing,
I agree that’s God domain. But please don’t tell me you’re relying on Him to take care of all three areas for them. That’s naive.”
Sam set down his plate and stretched out on the blanket he had taken from the trunk of his car. Hands behind his head, he spoke in a low voice. “Ana, I trust that God can bring physical, psychological and spiritual healing. I also think He wants us to use doctors and therapists. But the main thing I believe is that these kids need to be given the tools to move forward.”
“Basketball and crochet?”
“Those are lures to get them into the program.”
“Aha. I knew you had an ulterior motive.”
His mouth formed a lopsided grin. “Sure I do—and it’s devious. My ulterior motive is to equip the kids with what they’ll need to step out into the world and be successful. Yeah, we play basketball. But along with the game, we’re teaching teamwork and responsibility. We’re breaking down gang lines and insisting on respect for authority.”
“What about crochet?”
“Granny’s class puts boys in a traditionally female role, once again to break down accepted patterns. Respect for elders goes along with it.”
“So that’s it, then?” she asked. “You’re relying on your classes and your basketball games to create a future generation of successful young Americans.”
“We’ve only started,” he said. “I have a lot more in mind. I want to provide a stronger GED program, resources for expectant mothers, job training opportunities. We need more teachers and greater financial backing. When the whole place is functioning, yes, we will be helping create a successful future generation of young Americans.”
“That’s why you need to fix your lead paint problem.”
“Definitely.”
Ana picked up the used plates and stuffed them into the plastic fast-food bag. “It sounds good. But I have trouble believing this can help a child like Flora. Something terrible has happened in her past, Sam. She needs to deal with that.”
“I don’t believe in digging around in the past,” he said. “I’m for starting where you are and moving ahead.”
“You can’t move forward until you’ve healed your past. You can’t ignore it, Sam. It’s part of who you are.”
“You think everyone needs to spill their guts to some psychologist in order to get healthy? I don’t give a rip about my past. It’s over and done. I never look back.”
“Liar.” She crossed her arms and set her jaw. “You look at it every day. You can’t stop thinking about it.”
He sat up suddenly, leaning forward and jabbing a finger at her. “My eyes are wide-open, Ana. I do not want to look back. I will not do it!”
His words chilled her. “Why not, Sam? What are you afraid you’ll see?”
“Nothing.” He lowered his head. “There’s nothing to see, because I’m not looking.”
“Like the old peekaboo game? If I close my eyes, then you can’t see me?” She reached out and laid her hand on his arm. “Sam, I don’t like to look back, either. It hurts. But I’ve learned if I try to ignore what happened, I get stuck. There’s no way I can move forward.”
“You mean your sister? You think it’s important to keep looking back at that?”
Falling silent, Ana studied a group of children playing tag on a patch of green grass in the distance. They were running back and forth, shrieking, laughing, falling down and then running breathlessly to their parents. A happy scene, and one that should have lifted her spirits.
Yet it brought back too many memories. Ana didn’t like to think about what had happened, and she never discussed it with anyone but the counselor she had seen for a couple of months after her hasty move to St. Louis. People didn’t have a right to know about her private life, and she had no intention of sharing it.
She folded her arms across her knees and rested her cheek on them. Eyes closed, she felt Sam cover her hand with his own. In that instant, Ana knew a sense of comfort that she had never felt before. His fingers over hers were strong and solid, a barrier against anything that might cause her pain.
“My sister committed suicide,” she whispered. “She was in college…but she was drowning in drugs, alcohol, parties, one man after another. I worked at the
Brownsville Herald
and rented the guest cottage behind my parents’ house. So mature, you know.”
Struggling against tears, Ana reflected on those months in the little Tudor-style home with its broad wood beams, white walls and lace curtains. “I begged my parents to let my sister move in with me. I’d keep an eye on her, see that she stayed straight and went to counseling appointments. I knew I could keep her clean. So, she moved in. I cooked and cleaned and kept a close watch on her.”
“The perfect sister,” Sam said gently.
“Oh, definitely.” Ana discovered she was squeezing his hand. “My work at the newspaper got more demanding. I was assigned bigger stories, and I earned a raise. The editor promoted me from features to the city beat. I began an investigation into smugglers who were using the maquiladoras—the twin factories based on either side of the U.S./Mexico border—to move drugs. I threw myself into the assignment. And I started dating another reporter—we were working together on the story.”
“You started living your own life.”
Ana nodded. “My work became my focus. Just like here—it’s all I do. It’s all I have. It’s all I want. I’m not able to sustain any real relationships.”
“What happened to your sister?” Sam asked.
“One evening I came home from the newspaper. I walked through the door of my cottage…and her body was hanging from a beam…and it was too late…too late to save her…”
As she brushed away a tear, Sam drew her into his arms and held her close. The memory of her horror and shock at seeing her sister’s dead body swallowed Ana up, as it always had. How hard she had tried to revive that lifeless form. How deafening her mother’s shrieks. How painful the hours and days and weeks that followed.