Authors: Derek Jackson
“No, it can’t possibly be . . .” Lynn dialed the phone number listed by Eddie’s name.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice answered on the third ring.
“Hello. Is this Andrea Everett?”
“Yes, it is. May I ask who’s speaking?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Lynn Harper from Faith Community Church.”
“Oh, hello! So great to hear your voice! How are you?”
“Blessed, thank you. Um, listen, I was just running through the list of everyone who spoke during our healing service, and I had a quick question for you. It’s really nothing . . . I was just curious—Travis Everett is Eddie’s uncle, correct?”
“Yes. Travis is my brother. If you’re asking about our last names, it’s a funny thing, but we’re all Everetts. James, my husband, also has the last name Everett. I had to make sure we weren’t cousins when we started dating!”
“I just had a question about Travis. Does he work as a reporter for the
State
?”
There was a definitive pause on the other end of the line. “He . . . well, yes. Yes, Travis is a reporter with the newspaper. Are you asking that because of what he’s writing on the mystery-man story?”
This
is
the same Travis!
“Sort of. Travis called me as a reference on the first story, but I’m afraid he took my words completely out of context.”
“Oh, Miss Harper, I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to talk to him about not writing this story, or at least to stop being so skeptical about God’s role in these healings.”
“But I don’t understand. As Eddie’s uncle, Travis must have seen that remarkable miracle up close.”
“He did! But Travis can be so . . . stubborn sometimes. He’s never believed in Christ, you see, and even though the
proof
of God’s power is right before him, he still won’t believe. But I’m still praying for him. The Bible says that God is not willing for any man to perish, and the effectual, fervent prayers of the righteous avail much.”
“That’s certainly true,” Lynn agreed. More than anything else right now, she held fast to the truth of that scripture.
“WE CERTAINLY HAVE
a situation here,” Pastor Gentry remarked after Lynn filled him in on her conversation with both Travis and Andrea Everett. “If Chance is as guarded as you say . . .”
“He is.”
“. . . then I believe he should be forewarned about Mr. Everett showing up in Louisiana.”
Lynn nodded. “I know. When Chance told me how the people in his hometown treated him and how he still blames himself for his wife’s death . . . the
last
thing he needs is for a reporter lusting after publicity to show up on his doorstep. What should I do?”
Pastor Gentry leaned forward and steepled his fingertips together underneath his chin. “You have his phone number?”
Lynn nodded.
“Well, I suppose you could call him, or . . .” He arched an eyebrow.
“Or . . . what?” Lynn had been mulling over the idea since Travis had told her he was heading to Louisiana, but the thought was even crazier than purchasing a last-minute train ticket to Savannah. She wondered where these newfound radical thoughts were coming from. Well, the man had been so instrumental in healing her of blindness, so what else was she to do?
“Well, you could fly to Louisiana like this reporter is doing,” Pastor Gentry said, confirming Lynn’s crazy idea. “Remember what I said to you earlier? How nothing happens to us by coincidence and how our steps are ordered by God? You may have thought it merely an impulse to buy that train ticket, but doing so gave you an opportunity to spend meaningful ministry time with Chance. And after how God used him to open your blinded eyes, it’s only reasonable to grasp some sort of connection between you and him.”
“I was thinking the
exact
thing myself.”
P
OP, TODAY I’M GONNA FIX YOU
a real breakfast,” Chance yelled out over his shoulder, while the egg whites fried in the skillet. He was once famous for his mouthwatering egg-and-cheese omelets, but it had been years since he’d last stood in front of a stove. Still, he was discovering that he hadn’t lost his touch; it was just like riding a bicycle—once you knew how to do it, you didn’t forget. He used to make Nina breakfast in bed from time to time, knowing that the only thing better than preparing a delicious meal was having someone to prepare it
for
.
“What you say about breakfast?” Bennett asked, hobbling into the kitchen.
Chance turned around, wiped his hands on his apron, and grinned. “I said I’m gonna fix you a real breakfast, one of my omelet delights.”
“You aim to put a hurtin’ on an old man? My body can’t take all that cholesterol.”
No, your body can’t take all that alcohol,
Chance wanted to respond. “I’ve modified my recipe, Pop. I make ’em low in cholesterol now, but the taste stays the same. It’s just what the doctor ordered.”
“Well, alright. If you say so.”
A few minutes later, Chance carried two plates over to the table and watched with faint amusement as his pop attacked his omelet with gusto.
“Hungry, huh?”
“Mmm . . . starving is more like it. I ain’t had something this good since you left, son.”
Since I left . . .
“You not leavin’ me again, is you?” Bennett asked, seemingly reading Chance’s mind.
“I don’t know, Pop. Everything was so messed up before, you know? And I just needed some . . . some time. I had to get away for a while.”
“I know you did. But Jucinda ain’t talking about you no more.”
“That’s because she hasn’t
seen
me in two years. But Nina was her only daughter. And Jucinda resented me for what she thought I did like a black man resents the Ku Klux Klan. I just . . . I don’t know that I’m ready to come back and face all that. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”
Bennett snorted. “Jucinda jus’ needs to wake up and smell the coffee. You didn’t take her baby away. Cancer did. It’s a hard fact of life, but there ain’t nothing nobody can do about it.”
Chance nodded. “I don’t think that’s true, Pop. God can heal any disease.”
Bennett snorted again. “God can do whatever He wants to, but that don’t change the facts of what happened.”
Chance fingered the rim of his glass, staying silent about his gift of healing. He had never felt led by the Spirit to approach his father and ask if he could lay hands on him; he supposed it just wasn’t in God’s perfect timing yet.
Bennett finished the last of his omelet and smacked his lips together. “That was good, son! When a man fills his stomach like that, it makes him ready for God’s greatest leisure activity. You ready to take the boat out on the lake?”
Chance took another bite of his omelet, chewing slowly as he gazed out the kitchen window. Going fishing with Pop was the chief reason he’d come back here. Chance knew, like all children instinctively know as their parents get older, that the time he had left with his father should be valued and cherished. Pop’s health was getting worse, though the old man refused to see a doctor. And because Chance didn’t know the
specific
nature of his pop’s ailments, he could only pray a prayer of general health over him. He longed to lay hands on Pop and command every organ, cell, and tissue in the old man’s body to line up with the Word of God, but he knew Pop didn’t believe in that. He’d been against Chance taking Nina to see Floyd Waters, too.
“Chance?”
Chance blinked and came back to the present. “Huh?”
“I asked if we going out on the river today.”
Chance nodded. “You bet.”
THE SPORT OF FISHING
, according to Pop, was all about mastering the art of patience.
“Them fish got all day under the water to watch that bait,” Pop had always said when Chance was a little boy. “And if you keep jerkin’ that bait in and out of the water, they gon’ know that ain’t natural. Them fish is smart critters. So me and you—we gotta be smarter than them. We gotta wait them out. And when they can’t wait any longer, bam! When you see that lure bobbing like crazy, that’s when you got ’em.”
Chance had never really liked fishing, even though he’d always respected what Pop had been talking about concerning patience. What he
had
always liked was being outdoors, surrounded by nothing but trees, the sky, and water. And since Pop had gone fishing on his boat nearly every weekend, Chance would tag along, as the perfect opportunity to get lost in nature anytime he wanted.
And he was now back to that place he’d been so many times growing up—tagging along behind Pop. He watched now as Pop baited the hooks of three fishing poles, a delicate procedure given the hooks’ sharp edges, but something that Pop could’ve probably done in his sleep. Pop noticed his son watching and smiled—a big grin that seemed to spread over his whole face.
“Jus’ like old times, eh? You, me, fishin’ and the great outdoors.”
“Yeah,” Chance answered, struggling to spear the squirming earthworm in his hand around his own hook without pricking his finger in the process. “Just like old times.”
Except it wasn’t just as it had been years before. Two of the most important women in his life—his mother, Jacqueline, and his wife, Nina—were gone. In Chance’s mind, they had been taken from this world much too soon. Complicating matters even more, he was now a veritable outcast in his hometown and alcohol had reduced his pop to just a shell of the man he’d once been. Nothing would ever be the same as it had once been.
But you have to try to make things right,
he thought, finally getting the earthworm onto the hook. Seconds later, he cast the line out into the lake.
You have to try. For Pop.
EITHER TRAVIS WAS BECOMING
more skilled as a reporter or the people of Ruston were simply too talkative, because getting Chance Howard’s address turned out to be easier than downing a half-gallon container of ice cream during the first quarter of a football game.
He had started by going to the local post office, inquiring about obtaining the address of his long-lost friend Chance Howard.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” the kind, white-haired old lady at the desk responded. “I’d love to help you out, but I’m not allowed to give out addresses. Perhaps you have a phone number?”
Travis shook his head, thinking he would have to find another way to get Chance’s address. Just then, though, a man filling out a green certified-mail slip for an envelope looked up at him.
“Asking about Chance Howard get you in trouble round these parts,” the man said.
Travis pounced at the bait. “You know Chance Howard?” he asked, walking closer.
“Sorry to say I do.” The man narrowed his eyes. “He a friend of yours?”
Travis noted the man’s sudden hostility and decided to drop the “long-lost friend” bit.
“I’m actually a reporter, trying to get more information on Chance Howard for a story.”
“Oh, yeah? What kind of story? He ain’t leadin’ more gullible people on with that crazy healing talk, is he?”
Bingo!
Travis thought. He had to hand it to the small-town mentality of people talking too much. “Well, he may be. I’m from Columbia, South Carolina, and he may have done some . . .
things
up there that are causing people to ask questions.”
“Oh, yeah? Did somebody else have to die, like that poor young girl?”
Have to die?
“Um, I’m trying to do what I can to prevent that, sir. Do you know where Chance Howard lives?”
“Yeah, I know where he stays. But he ain’t been back here for a couple of years. And he
won’t
be back here, if he knows what’s good for him.”
Travis nodded his head, as if he understood. “Okay, but I still need to know where he stays. Can you tell me that?”
The man shrugged and proceeded to give directions. Travis almost physically patted himself on the back. There wasn’t anything to this detective business after all.
THE MAN’S DIRECTIONS TOOK
Travis to a dirt road just off Interstate 20. Here the homes’ yards were more like pastures, as cows and horses grazed on the grass or lounged in the sun. A bull stared menacingly at Travis as he drove along, making him uneasy in his rental truck. The old Ford pickup was the cheapest vehicle available for rental, and the way it had been driving, it wouldn’t stand a chance on this dirt road against this bull.
The road wound and twisted its way for a half mile through thick shrubbery and foliage. In some places, it was only wide enough for one car to pass at a time. After a few minutes of tedious navigating, Travis came to a clearing. A two-story brick house sat nestled between a large barn and a structure that looked like an oversized greenhouse. This had to be the place, although Travis couldn’t help but feel confused. A house like this—on so many acres of land—had to cost a fortune. Which of course prompted the question: how could someone like Chance afford this?
Has to be that moneymaking scheme
, he thought, now feeling even more resolve to get the scoop on this story. He thought about parking underneath a large pine tree at the edge of the clearing and then walking up to the house on foot (which seemed like the detective thing to do), but that meant at least seventy to eighty yards of walking.
Ain’t no way . . .
Never one for exercise anyway, he instead drove to within a few yards of the front door before killing the sputtering engine. He looped his camera around his neck, got out, and walked to the front door. The place looked deserted, but well-kept. Travis rang the doorbell, not really expecting Chance to open the door and give him that easy a photo opportunity. After he’d rung the bell a few times more and after several minutes of waiting, he figured he’d just sit in the back of his truck and wait Chance out. All signs indicated that Chance had taken the train back here, so sooner or later he would have to show. And when he did, Travis would be right here, ready to add to the story that was going to launch his career.
T
HE 2:45 P.M. FLIGHT TO MONROE,
Louisiana, had taken just under four hours, but by the time Lynn had retrieved her luggage, sorted out which rental car service best fit her needs, and driven the thirty miles west to Ruston, dusk was approaching. She had been talking to herself on the plane and in the car—repeatedly telling herself how foolish and impulsive her actions were. Buying a train ticket for a two-hour trip to Savannah was one thing, since people took trips like that all the time for shopping or for an afternoon getaway. But
flying
almost halfway across the country for no apparent reason? She tried convincing herself she just wanted to warn Chance, but couldn’t she have made a phone call and done that?