Adam's Woods (13 page)

"And that's the last time I saw him. I'd hoped that time would give him some perspective, or at least he'd be able to forgive me but that was the last time he ever contacted me directly. He writes to Paul sometimes, last I knew he was in California.

"The point, is that I don't want you to make the same mistake I did, Eric, if you have a little boy someday. Pay attention. Spend time with him. Do whatever you must. They grow into men, and you have such an awesome responsibility in shaping what sort of man that is. Don't let it end up this way."

Eric didn't know what to say, but Burroughs kept him locked in an almost frightening gaze and he realized he wanted a response. He nodded, and this seemed to satisfy enough that his stare lost its intensity.

"So, Eric, how are your parents? We had kept in touch for a while, but I think that to move on after your brother's death they had to let this place go, and me and others here with it." Eric felt himself being scrutinized, but subtly. Adam had made his first appearance in their conversation, and he felt Burroughs testing the subject as if poking ice for its soundness before stepping out.

"They're good. In Arizona now. Dad got arthritis pretty bad and had to give up the furniture business, but I think he was ready anyway. The dry air helps with the pain."

"Do they know you've bought the house?"

"No. I don't know what they'd think about it. I still have my apartment in Pittsburgh, and for all they know I still live there. When they come up to visit, that's where I'll be."

"Well, if you can think of a way to do it without spilling the beans, please tell them I said hello. I still miss them. Such fine people, your mom and dad." A pained look flashed over his face, and then was gone.

They cleared the table and Eric helped with the dishes, and then with a bowl of ice cream he didn't have room for but planned to eat anyway, the pastor led him to the living room, Eric seated on the sofa and Burroughs taking the rocker.

"So it must be exciting, being an author. I always knew you'd do something with yourself, Eric. I have your two volumes with the undead soldiers. Interesting stuff."

His tone insinuated nothing, but Eric reddened and said, "Yeah. I know it's not really the sort of thing that a minister would have on his bookshelf, and..." he faltered, preparing to apologize, but it would lack sincerity. He wasn't sorry. He'd done the best he could with what he had. Who could fault him for that? He found himself getting angry, sure that a condemnation would follow even though Burroughs soften its delivery.

"Please, don't be embarrassed, Eric. Oh, the gore is a little shocking but I believe it's an honest expression. In some ways courageous. I just want to say that if you feel I might be any sort of help in sorting things out, please, let me know."

His words disarmed and Eric felt ashamed of his unjustified anger, but more from a new source filled the vacuum. Not anger directed at the minister, but at God that had all but killed his brother. He forgot his resolve not to discuss spiritual matters.

"How could he let it happen, Patrick? How could God let Adam die? How do you still believe after what happened to your wife?"

The words came out with more emotion than he'd intended; he felt tears begin to rise, felt like a boy again, confused and angry and raw with agony. But he kept his eyes on Burroughs. He wanted an answer, wanted God to explain himself through his man, dared Him to. And it had better be good.

Burroughs looked at the floor for a very long time, and Eric began to wonder if he had fallen asleep. He couldn't see his eyes under the tangle of eyebrows. Partially relieved, the pause clearing some of the charge contained in the question from the room and leaving him unsure, Eric thought he might just slip out if he heard snoring.

"I'm sorry, Eric. I'm thinking how best to answer, and I think directly is most prudent. I'm going to give you the Cliff Note version, because I don't know if you're ready for any more than that right now."

Eric thought the answer should feel patronizing, but it didn't. Because he thought the man probably correct in his assessment. He sat still and waited.

"First, let me say that in all honesty, I don't know why specific things happen to specific people. Why your brother and not someone else? Why my wife? But if we think in those terms, we also have to ask why did every other bad thing - natural disasters, accidents, birth defects, the list goes on- happen to someone else and not you or me? We simply don't know. It doesn't make it any less painful, maybe more so, because it doesn't seem to make any sense.

But I believe this is a fallen world, both the creation itself and the hearts of the people living in it. Since we have free will to choose salvation or reject it, that also extends to moral choices beyond that singular one. Some make wonderful decisions and build and discover amazing things that benefit us all. Some make terrible choices that have horrifying consequences for individuals and entire nations. Could God stop the latter? If he's all-powerful He could. But to do so would take away their choice. But when the consequences fall on children, it's hardest to swallow. And at that point many stop short and spit in disgust at a God that could allow them to be hurt, no matter what the explanation. But ultimately, children are fallen beings too, living in the same fallen world and suffering its effects, and are ultimately not innocent, because the seeds of sin are sown in them already. I'm not saying it's easy to grasp, or that they deserve it, and I'm not saying it's palatable and it would be worse for us if it were. But God didn't spare his own truly innocent Son even when he could have. Instead he gave us a way out at His expense; He was known as the Man of Sorrows.

“In the end, you must accept it in faith that there is a reason God allows specific things to happen. And it's hard. Doctrine is one thing. Being in the crucible to test it is quite another. I'd be lying if I told you that when my Carrie died, I wasn't sitting where you are right now. I almost walked away from the ministry before I embraced it. And I embraced it in a way that led to Isaac's detriment. The curse of original sin lives on. But I've found out that in all the tragedy, the mistakes and the pain, it's worth believing. So hard sometimes, but most good things, most true things, usually are at some point."

He'd been leaning forward in his rocker during the short but loaded speech and Eric imagined he saw him as he appeared in the pulpit, seemingly ten years younger, the lines on his face marks of wisdom, battle scars of a still vigorous warrior. After finishing, Burroughs sank back, slowly deflating, until he settled against the chair, which groaned with the repositioning of his weight. The lines became just lines of age once again.

Burroughs brought a hand up to his temples, said in a weak voice, an old man's voice, "So think on that, Eric. If you like, at some later date, we can go more in depth. I have a series of sermons I prepared on Job, sort of God's Poster Boy for suffering. But, I'm so sorry but I think I'm going to have to lie down now. Seem to have developed quite a headache."

"Can I get you anything, Pastor? Some aspirin?"

Burroughs waved away the suggestion with his free hand, the other still fixed to his head." No, but thank you. I get them sometimes, and the only thing that seems to help is sleep. I'm just sorry it had to be tonight. But please, take the lasagna in the refrigerator home."

"I'll do that, thank you. Are you sure I can't do something, at least help get you to your bed?"

He responded in a voice no louder than a whisper, "No, I'll just need to sit here for a few moments, and I'll be all right to do that myself. Good night, Eric."

"Okay....good night, then. Thanks for everything."

Eric got the container of lasagna and came back for his coat. He thought to say something else, maybe extend a future dinner invitation, but felt that he'd been dismissed, perhaps even forgotten to the obviously debilitating pain. As he opened the door, he turned around to look at Burroughs one more time, considering whether he should call an ambulance. The older man kept his head down, his eyes closed, but lifted his free hand in a small tremulous wave. Eric decided it might be meddling, and since this wasn't something new, likely resented. He finally left, yet still with some reluctance.

He stepped out into the cool night, and thought of the leaves that would soon be in transition, fall a favorite season of his. But his mind drifted back to what the Pastor had said about suffering. He was surprised how neutral he felt, expected anger or disgust or something negative. But it was an honest answer, and in the end he realized that no amount of sermons or explanations would bring him peace. He would find that, as Burroughs said, by accepting in faith what couldn't be understood. At least now he had somewhere to start, and perhaps he was finally ready to listen. Where he'd end up was the wild card.

The pounding on the door startled him, the noise like hammer blows into his aching head. He imagined that several malicious imps had gained access to his skull, and were making the most of their windfall. Imps. In a pastor's head, no less, the book of Job on a miniature scale. Sometimes he wondered if God were punishing him for his misdeeds in the form of a migraine.

The knock came again, an impatient banging that rattled the windows, and he realized he would need to get to the door before the third round; sure it would be the knock-out blow. He might have shouted, but didn't have the strength nor wanted to hear his own voice bouncing around in concert with the throbbing echoes of the visitor's insistence.

He flipped on the outside light to make sure Eric knew he was coming and ward off anymore knocking. He liked Eric, was pleased with how the evening had gone up until the end, but felt irritated that he'd come back knowing his state, and especially with the pounding.

He opened the door, shielding his eyes from the porch light and was almost knocked over by Arnie Fisk bulling his way in. He felt a momentary flash of pure hatred but bottled it up. As though God couldn't see it. No, but he needed to control it.

"What did you tell him?" Arnie shouted.” Why the hell did you invite him over here in the first place, Pastor?" He had told Arnie to call him Patrick years ago. Titles were important to Fisk. Deacon Fisk, that is.

In a hoarse whisper, he answered, "Arnie, keep your voice down. I have one of my headaches. As to your questions, I told him nothing as it pertains to your context. What would it benefit me? I asked him over because it's what neighbors do."

"Eric Kane isn't my neighbor. His coming back here only makes trouble. If he isn't careful he's going to find some." He'd dialed down the shouting to the level of a man trying to be heard over conversation in a crowded room. Still far too loud for Burroughs.

"Arnie, I can't deal with this right now. But don't you touch him. Don't you dare touch him. Wasn't one Kane enough?" Despite his headache, he brought his eyes up to meet Fisk in a hard, challenging stare.

"Pastor, you know this isn't good for any of us. And by you inviting him over, making him feel at home, he's likely to stay. Hell, he's already screwing Mary Collins, I'll bet. The little whore. Let him be, and he'll get tired of this little vacation and go, figure out he doesn’t belong here."

"You'll watch you mouth in my house, Arnie. Now please leave. We'll discuss then when I'm in a better state to do so."

Arnie smiled, a small, mean smile and the hatred returned to Burroughs, and this time he couldn't deny it, probably couldn't hide it either.

"I'll leave, Pastor, but I'm not making any promises. I'll do what I need to. This is our town. Nothing changes now. We’re in this as deep as you, and it isn't just yours to decide on."

He left without another word, leaving the door wide open, striding quickly away as he always did. Shutting the door, careful not to bang it, Burroughs engaged the locks and shuffled to the bedroom, collapsing on the bed fully dressed and letting the dark and quiet seep into his head. The hatred for Fisk slipped away as well, and left him feeling empty.

He could hate Arnie; hate how he'd taken control of things, loathe how he'd used the situation as leverage to benefit himself. But in the end, Arnie was right. They were all in it deep. Desperation makes men do desperate things, he supposed. But when those things level out again, the consequences remain. The ones seen, and the ones still yet to be seen. And he knew that without Arnie's knowledge they could not have accomplished what they had done; Arnie paid too much attention to the business of others to conduct something of this nature without discovery.

But was what they had done really wrong? As a minster, he felt that he should have a ready answer. But he simply didn't know. Or didn't want to. He had entertained this debate with himself off and on running for years without resolution, and in the end it really didn't matter. Arnie was right in the one thing that did; they had been in this too long to change course now. And except for the headache, the evening with Eric had been a success. He knew now he could deal with him living in the town, had sincerely wanted to see and talk with him but also discover how difficult having him as a neighbor might prove. Eric never had to know, and things could just go on. The trouble that Fisk foresaw might be of his own doing if he didn't settle down.