Not a Sparrow Falls (15 page)

“Porter.” The guard called out Jonah’s name in a bored monotone.

Jonah turned.

“Lawyer,” he said, jerking his head toward the door.

Jonah nodded and felt a surge of jitters. His lawyer made the trip to see him only when she had to, so she wouldn’t have come just to bring him the file he wanted to see. She
must have some news for him. Not that he gave lawyers any credit. But even a blind pig found an acorn now and then.

He accompanied the guard through the locked doors and waited while the signal was given. The locks electronically released, the doors slid open and shut again behind him. He counted his steps down the corridor automatically, noticing each stride measured exactly three squares of linoleum. Eighty-seven steps and he was at the visitors’ center. He’d only had one visitor. His mama. She’d covered her mouth when she’d seen him, then wept. He’d asked her not to come back.

“You’re jumpy today.” The guard patted him down, frowning.

Jonah didn’t answer. The stuff he got in here was barely enough to take the edge off. The guard finished his search and passed him through. Jonah went into the little room where he met with his attorney. She was in there waiting, a bony little woman. A black woman. Court appointed. Almost worse than no lawyer at all. He sat down in the green plastic chair and scooted it up to the table. The guard locked the door.

“Mr. Porter,” she greeted him.

He nodded.

“How are you faring?”

He stared at her for a minute, not answering. “How am I faring?” he finally repeated. She killed him. She just killed him. Probably went to law school on some welfare program, and here she was dressed up in a business suit, with her leather briefcase and cell phone, asking him how he was faring.

“Oh, I’m faring well,” he answered her. “They treat me real good here. I’m waited on from morning to night, don’t have to do a thing for myself. I get a wake-up call every morning. I have breakfast served to me. The state even gives me a free lunch. I have complete recreational facilities, which I was just enjoying when your visit interrupted me. I’ll probably finish up here just in time to be served my supper, then I’ll spend a delightful few hours visiting with my companions in the
dormitory until the lights are turned out for us at midnight. Oh, I’m faring very well. Thank you for asking.”

His attorney stared at him for a moment. She looked as if she might smile. He decided to wipe it off her face.

“I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want any colored friends,” he said, just to be mean, and sure enough, the smile faded. “Why don’t you forget about being friends and just do your job. Did you bring my file like I asked?”

She was silent for a minute, gave him a little stare, then took a folder from her briefcase. She handed it to him. “You can look at it while I’m here. And this, too.” She set down another file and smiled, just as if he hadn’t insulted her at all. “This is the brief I filed for your appeal.”

“How long until they decide?”

She shrugged. “They do things on their own schedule.”

He felt a surge of anger. “If they overturn my conviction, how long after that would I be released?”

“If they order a new trial, your case will be remanded back to Nelson County and a date set at that time. It’s a lengthy process. Your best hope is that the Commonwealth’s attorney might cut you a deal rather than go to trial again. Then it’s possible you’d be released immediately with credit for time served.”

“That’s fine,” he said. He ignored the brief and pulled the other file toward him. The search had been bogus. Even a no-account, state-appointed lawyer had been able to see that. He opened the jacket and shuffled through the papers until he found the police report. There it was. He scanned it until he found the part he was looking for.

Officers dispatched following 9–1-1 call from female. Transcript below.

He read the transcript. It was pure Mary B. Sweet, polite, and cutting right to the throat. She’d given them everything. Names, locations, amount of business done, even the directions to the place. His jaw clenched. He shut the folder and passed it back to his lawyer. She took it from him and put
it back in her briefcase. Jonah called for the guard and rose to leave.

“Oh, Mr. Porter . . .”

He turned back. His lawyer had a silly little smirk on her face.

“One of the appeals court justices who’ll be deciding your fate is African American.”

He didn’t answer, just turned away. He waited while the guard buzzed open the door, then headed back toward his cell. Let her have her little laugh. Black, white, yellow, green—he didn’t care what color the judges were as long as they let him out of here. He didn’t waste his anger on stupid things.

He went back to his cell, went to supper, went back to his cell, and waited for things to settle down inside him. They didn’t. He felt stirred up, his insides churning and hot. He had been prepared to find out for certain that Mary Bridget had turned him in. He hadn’t been prepared for the fact that he would feel something about that.

He lay down on the bed and did something he almost never did. Went someplace he almost never visited anymore. He took a little journey back in time. Back to the past. He could see it, smell it, taste it, hear the voices of folks he hadn’t seen in years.

He had known Mary Bridget Washburn all his life. He had been seven when she was born, and he remembered watching her grow up from a towheaded little girl to a beautiful woman.

And he remembered the day that had changed everything. It was after Uncle Joshua had died. He’d headed down the road and knocked on her back door, rain dripping off his head, soaked clear to the bone. His life was bad, and he knew for a fact that hers wasn’t much better.

She had thrown open the door, and he could still see her perfectly before him, wearing blue jeans and a white cotton shirt that wasn’t tucked in, a pair of tennis shoes without any socks. He smelled something stewing—a chicken, maybe. That and the stench of stale whiskey rolled out at him. She’d
been crying. There was a red welt on her cheek, and Jonah felt his hands clench and his collar grow tight as the scene replayed itself.

“Where is he?” he’d growled.

“In jail,” she’d said and then burst into full heartbreak. He had gathered her to his chest, and even now he felt if he reached down, his shirt would be damp from her tears, that if he opened his callused hand, he would feel her silky head underneath it.

“They took the children,” she’d sobbed. “The welfare people came and took them off.”

“You come with me,” he had whispered. “We’ll get away from here.”

She’d said no, that she was going to try to get custody, so he’d trudged on back up the mountain. But it wasn’t too long before she’d shown up on his doorstep, that green duffel in her hand.

“They’re gone,” she had said with a tone he hadn’t heard before—hard and angry. They’d left that day, neither one of them looking back. They joined up with some fellows Jonah knew, mostly just to have a place to crash, but it wasn’t long before they were cooking a little candy to sell, and after that it seemed like there weren’t any more choices. Like the only ones that mattered had been made a long time ago, and not by either of them.

Jonah felt his chest harden up again, and suddenly he was going to scream if he sat still one more minute. His arms itched. His face itched, even his eyeballs itched. He needed something. He got up and paced around the cell some more.

He wondered for the hundredth, the thousandth time, what she had done with the money. He knew she hadn’t spent it. Oh, a little maybe, but he had no doubt that most of it was still in that green duffel, and as careful as she was with things, it was hidden somewhere. Knowing her, it would be somewhere close to home. He pictured her old granny’s house. She’d probably put it somewhere around there. In that
old hollow where she used to play or in one of her grandpa’s empty bee stands. Maybe in the old springhouse down by the creek or tucked behind a pile of rocks.

Didn’t matter. She’d tell him herself. And soon. He would make sure of that. He smiled at the fact that her betrayal of him would be his ticket to freedom—the fact that they’d based their search on an anonymous tip.

It gave him a hard, bitter satisfaction, and suddenly he felt angry with himself for covering those back roads, going down the trails of memory that took him nowhere, accomplished nothing useful. He reminded himself that he didn’t waste time on regrets and he didn’t waste time feeling sorry for himself. He didn’t waste time feeling sorry for anything. He took a deep breath, and when he released it, he was back to feeling like himself again. Everything solid, firmed up, and where it belonged. He would get out of here soon.

Then he had four things to do, no more, no less, and in specific order. Walk into Boo’s Tavern and have a cold beer, a T-bone steak, baked potato, and all the trimmings. Spend a nice evening with Connie, the barmaid. Get high. And find Mary Bridget Washburn. Thinking about her this time gave him no warm memories. In fact, he felt nothing at all.

Ten

“What do you mean you can’t take them?” Alasdair fought to keep his voice reasonable.

“I mean, they’re obviously sick.” The day-care attendant crossed her arms and looked annoyed. “I’m surprised you aren’t more concerned about their welfare.”

Alasdair didn’t bother to explain that this was the tail end of their illness. He just gathered them up and put them back in the car. He would have to call and cancel everything when he got home. He would try to work in his telephone calls around naps. His head throbbed, and he snatched off his glasses and tossed them on the seat beside him.

He drove the short distance to his home and parked the car in the garage. By the time he got the children into the house, the telephone was ringing. Of course. Let’s see, today was Monday. Monday’s calls were the sermon complaints and clarifications. On Wednesday it would be the inevitable last-minute requests to fill in for someone who had a duty at Wednesday service. The same on Friday. Saturday’s calls were about the announcements. And always, every day, the calls from those who were just unhappy and needing a listening ear or a scapegoat. Alasdair heaved a huge sigh. He let this particular call go to the machine and listened to the message while he took the twins’ jackets off.

“Pastor, it’s Ellen Smith.”

He was glad he hadn’t answered. He knew what the church treasurer wanted.

“Could you hold off from cashing your paycheck for a day? I’m going to have to transfer some money, and I can’t get to the bank until this afternoon.” He gave his head a shake. Another neck-and-neck race between income and expenditure. It was ridiculous. That’s what it was. He didn’t believe for a minute that the money wasn’t there. But the congregation
was unhappy with him, and therein lay the rub. He burned with anger at the fact that the church could be controlled with one small gesture, the collective closing of the wallet.

He put the twins in their playpen and went to make his calls. Fortunately his sermon outline for next week was nearly complete, and his column for
Sound Doctrine
was ready to be mailed. He canceled a counseling appointment and called the producer of his radio program. “I’m ill,” he said, admitting the truth.

“I think I can cover it,” the producer said. “At least for a while.”

He took down his notebook and began scanning the notes for this week’s sermon. The telephone rang again. The babies began to fuss. He checked his watch. It was much too soon for naps.

“Yes.” The terse greeting was all he could manage.

“Pastor—” He recognized the no-nonsense tones of Margaret Beeson, a longtime member. “I was just going over my notes from Sunday, and I find myself concerned about a quote you used in your sermon. It was from
Mere Christianity
by C. S. Lewis.”

“Mm.” Alasdair made a noncommittal noise and wished he hadn’t picked up.

“Are you aware Lewis was not a Calvinist? He was distinctly Arminian in theology.”

“I’m aware of it. In nonessential doctrines, charity and tolerance of divergent views should be the rule.”

“I hardly call the doctrine of salvation nonessential. Was he a pre- or a post-Millennialist?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. Why don’t you put your concerns in writing and mail them to me,” he suggested, trying to keep his tone mild. “I’ll consider them in detail.”

He hung up and rubbed his temples. Anyone’s opinion about the timing of the return of Christ to earth, whether before or after the thousand-year reign of peace, seemed entirely irrelevant to anything that was happening of real
importance in his life. His only thought on the subject was a burning wish that it might be today.

Bonnie wailed, and Cameron joined in. Alasdair’s head began to hurt in earnest, and he became aware of an uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. He knew he should go to the babies, but instead he went to the couch and sat staring at the wall in front of him.

Perhaps he should resign his church. Take Gerald Whiteman’s offer and end the misery.

The thought shocked him, but there it was, demanding to be recognized and considered. Immediately Anna’s face appeared before him in imagination. He felt a stab of some strong emotion. It was ironic that he would consider resigning now that she was gone, when he had resisted it so steadfastly while she was alive.

“It’s the highest calling in life.”
It was his father who spoke now, and Alasdair saw him, florid and intense, gesturing and expounding.
“It’s your pulpit. Take charge of it, and don’t let anyone turn you aside. No one,”
he had repeated often, as if he somehow had overheard the conversations, the whispered pleas that were made behind the closed bedroom door. No. He would not quit. Not after he had sacrificed so much to keep going.

Cameron’s voice took on the shrill vibrato that meant he was reaching the end of his rope. And Alasdair’s own head was pounding, his pulse skittish and racing. He hacked a cough every few moments, and his stomach had begun to churn and twist in earnest. He was hot and cold, then hot again.