Texas Born (17 page)

An education.

A career, even if not one of his
choosing.

The possibility to travel around the world,
to the far- distant places of which he had dreamed so long.

And, possibly, Phoebe for a wife.

Everything, on a platter.

For a moment, a feeling of choked love rose
up within him. He, who had never felt anything for religion, now
felt something overwhelming stirring deep within him. Was this an
accident? Was this fate? Or . . . was it truly the Lord's doing?
Perhaps . . . just perhaps, it was.

Before Reverend Flatts showed Zaccheus out,
he took him aside. 'Just remember,' he told him in that special
tone of voice which implied both confidentiality and the caring
advice of an elder, 'no good decision was ever reached in a rush.
Take your time coming to a decision about this. Think it over well
and consider all the consequences. Now, go home and try to get a
good night's sleep.'

The following day Reverend Flatts rode out to
the Howe farm to see Nathaniel.

Nathaniel had a pretty good inclination just
why the reverend had come. He signaled for the short, fat visitor
to follow and led him from the bright sunshine into the dark
dankness of the cabin. The single big room, divided in two by the
ragged curtain, smelled stale and rancid.

Nathaniel reached up into a cupboard, lifted
down a stone jug of moonshine, and banged it down on the rough-hewn
kitchen table. He pulled out the cork, which plopped noisily, and
poured two mason jars full to the rim before sitting down. The
reverend sat down too. From outside, at the other side of the
lean-to, came the steady cracking sound of Zaccheus splitting
firewood.

Nathaniel took a hearty swig before noticing
that the reverend wasn't touching his drink. He gestured with his
thumb at the reverend's jar. 'Cain't trust a man who don't drink,'
he said tersely.

The reverend felt Nathaniel's dark eyes
boring into his. Slowly he picked up the jar and quashing a
grimace, sipped delicately. He suppressed a shudder. The corn
liquor was strong and burned raw all the way from his throat down
to his stomach. He never touched spirits, but he didn't dare turn
down Nathaniel's hospitality: the farmer would be offended. More
important, he needed Nathaniel to be in as good a mood as possible;
otherwise, the mission on which he had come would surely fail.

'Lord, forgive me,' Reverend Flatts prayed
soundlessly each time he took a tiny sip.

Both men sat there quietly for a time,
Nathaniel draining his jar, the reverend making gingerly attempts
at sipping his. Nathaniel scowled when he noticed that the level of
moonshine in the reverend's jar was barely dropping. 'You ain't
drinkin',' he accused softly. 'Come on, Rev'end, drink up like a
man. It ain't gonna kill you.'

Reverend Flatts closed his eyes and drained
his jar. He started coughing uncontrollably and his eyes bulged
like a carp's.

Nathaniel leaned sideways and slapped
Reverend Flatts heartily on the back, which only made the fat
little man's eyes bulge even further. Nathaniel filled both jars
again. He raised his. 'Bottoms up.'

The reverend watched, fascinated, as
Nathaniel drained his jar in one long gulp. Then he realized, with
a shock, that Nathaniel was waiting for him to follow suit. 'Lord,
forgive me,' he prayed silently again, and drained his jar. He
sputtered painfully, his stomach began to churn, and it took all
his strength to fight to keep the bile down. Nathaniel filled the
jars again.

The reverend was feeling peculiarly
light-headed, a feeling he had never been subject to before, and
sweat suddenly began to pour from his body. His limbs felt
weightless and the room began to reel around him. Amazingly,
though, the more Nathaniel Howe drank, the more sober he seemed to
become.

Finally Nathaniel leaned back in his chair,
his eyelids drooping as if to sleep. But it was a deceptively
sleepy look: he was very alert. 'So you come to take my boy away
from me,' he drawled slowly at last.

The reverend didn't speak immediately. He had
been trained to handle almost any situation gracefully, but here at
the Howes' he was a fish out of water. He had never been inside the
cabin before, and he found it stifling. Everything spoke of a
desperate attempt at making the unlivable livable. It depressed
him, revolted him, made him more ill-at-ease than he had ever been
in his life and, strangely enough, at the same time gave him
strength for what he had come to do. Making a better life for at
least one member of this abjectly poor family—eliminating the
specter of poverty for Zaccheus—that was, at least, a beginning for
the Howes. That was, the reverend believed, the Lord's will.

Nathaniel suddenly scraped back his chair and
jumped to his feet. He crossed the creaky floorboards and flung
open the front door. 'Sue Ellen!' he called out gruffly.

It wasn't long before his wife appeared, her
lined face weary, her eyes dull as she nervously wiped her red, raw
hands on her dirty apron.

'The rev'end's hungry!'

Sue Ellen nodded and managed a timid smile as
she squeezed past her husband into the cabin.

'Really, you don't need to go to any trouble
for me, ma'am,' the reverend protested unsteadily. The very thought
of food made him that much queasier. He watched Sue Ellen reaching
for a grease-coated iron skillet, and winced.

'You visit us, you eat with us,' Nathaniel
growled stubbornly. 'My boy, he's eaten enough meals at your house.
Now you'll eat here.'

Reverend Flatts nodded unhappily and tried to
form a smile. He was white-faced and ill, but it was important that
he share the offered hospitality, no matter how much it revolted
him. 'I'm . . . much obliged,' he said softly.

'Zack!' Nathaniel roared out the door.

The chopping and splintering noises stopped
instantly. A moment later Zaccheus appeared at the door. He looked
nervous, at once ashamed but willing. 'Pa?'

'Kill us the fattest chicken we got. You know
the one.

Zaccheus nodded. 'Yes, Pa,' he said
hesitantly.

'And git a move on, boy!'

'Yes, Pa.' Zaccheus' eyes met the reverend's.
He was ashamed of the poverty and the dirt which his mother, much
as she tried, just couldn't begin to cope with. What made it all so
much worse was that he had dined so often at the Flattses', and was
only too aware of the trouble Arabella went through when she
prepared a meal. Everything in the Flattses' house was succulent
and beautifully served. Here there was no gleaming china which had
been passed down through the generations; everything was cracked
and chipped and dull with years of use. Zaccheus spun around and
left immediately.

The immediacy of his departure was not lost
on Nathaniel. His shoulders slumped and he seemed suddenly to age
as he stared after his son with a terrible sense of misgiving and
loss. He realized at once that what he had so often feared had come
true. Zaccheus respected the reverend far more than he would ever
respect his own father. Worse, Nathaniel knew that there was
nothing he could do about it. He couldn't read. He couldn't write.
Abstract thought was lost on him. The things which were important
to Zaccheus were the things with which the reverend, but not he,
was endowed.

He had lost his only son.

With a loud clatter Sue Ellen slid the iron
skillet onto the stove and then went outside carrying a wooden
bucket. At the well she filled it with water and brought it inside.
She poured a huge pot full and carefully stoked the big iron stove
with wood. Then she twisted a piece of newspaper into a kind of
stick, scratched a match against the wall, and lit the paper. With
it she poked inside the stove until the wood began to burn. Then
she grabbed a basket and headed outside again. For a moment she
stopped in the front yard and regarded her son. Zaccheus was
holding a bowl of chicken feed in one hand and was spraying it all
around him with the other. 'Here, chick-chick-chick-chick- chick,'
he cooed softly.

Smiling and shaking her head, Sue Ellen
quickly strode toward the other side of the cabin, where the
kitchen garden was located.

After slaughtering the chicken, Zaccheus made
himself scarce. He knew that the reverend and his father wanted to
discuss his future in private. Still, he couldn't help wondering
how he was faring.

'Oh, God,' he prayed silently, 'make my
father see the light.'

It was only after he had uttered these
soundless words that he realized what he had done.

For the first time in his life, he had said a
prayer.

Reverend Flatts belched noisily, no longer
bothering to stifle the noises or cup his hand over his mouth. He
grabbed hold of the edge of the table and hung on. It was funny
what drink could do to you, he was thinking. The cabin walls were
positively
reeling
madly around him, like some carnival ride
gone berserk. He felt hot and sticky too. The glowing stove let off
so much heat, and the chicken, frying in the pan of splattering
grease, made him ever more nauseous.

Nathaniel placed his bony elbows on the table
and leaned suspiciously across it. He looked deep into the
reverend's eyes. 'Zaccheus is the only boy we got. We need 'im
here. Tell me why I ought to let him go off and leave his family 'n
his farm.'

Reverend Flatts pushed his empty mason jar
toward Nathaniel and smiled meekly. Nathaniel grabbed the jug and
filled the jar to the brim. The reverend took a long pull at his
replenished liquor and burped contentedly. He sat back and folded
his plump red hands over his ample belly. Funny, too, that the
concoction no longer burned down his throat. 'It's for his sake.
He's a smart kid. He's got a lot to offer people,' he said
laboriously, vaguely aware that his words were slurred. He frowned
deeply, concentrating on the pronunciation of every word, but it
didn't help. 'He'll get a lot in return. He's special.'

Nathaniel smiled thinly. 'What do I git outta
it?' he asked quietly.

'You?' The reverend frowned. 'N-nothing.'

Nathaniel nodded slowly. At least the
reverend wasn't going to try to bullshit him with that
'you're-going-to-be-blessed' routine, he thought. 'An' Zaccheus?
What's my boy git?'

'An education. Hard work.' The reverend
swallowed and let out a sigh of relief. 'Zaccheus won't have to
worry about where his next meal is coming from,' he said.

Nathaniel nodded again. For a moment he
looked defeated. Then he raised his head with pride. 'Tell me one
thing, Rev'end. Will my boy make a good preacher?'

Reverend Flatts drained his jar and set it
down with a bang. He scraped it forward, toward Nathaniel.
'More.'

'You're sure?' Nathaniel asked with a wry
grin.

'I'm sure.' Reverend Flatts nodded
emphatically. He watched his jar closely as Nathaniel filled it.
Then he pulled it toward him, spilling half of it on the table. 'I
can't answer whether Zaccheus'll make a good preacher, Mr. Howe.
That's up . . .' Reverend Flatts burped noisily again. '. . . up to
Zaccheus.'

'All right,' Nathaniel said. 'You got him,
Rev'end. You and your Lord. My son's yours.'

The words barely registered. Reverend Flatts
jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over backward in the
process, and lunged desperately to the door. As he stumbled
outside, he grabbed hold of the porch post with both hands and took
a series of deep breaths. But it was too late. He threw up all over
himself. Then his eyes rolled backward in their sockets, the pupils
seeming to disappear under his eyelids until only the whites
showed. He fell heavily, unaware that Nathaniel had come up behind
him.

Nathaniel caught the reverend and lowered him
gently to the porch boards. He shook his head and chuckled to
himself. Reverend Flatts had passed out.

The reverend never did get to eat the
chicken, but six months later Zaccheus was on a train headed for
Center Hall College in Tigerville, Virginia.

'Zaccheus Howe?'

Zaccheus spun around and found himself
face-to- face with a breathless pockmarked freshman. 'Yes?'

'Reverend Astin wants to see you,' the
freshman whispered in a hushed, reverential voice.

'Thank you,' Zaccheus said, but his thanks
were obviously lost; the freshman's fleet feet were already
carrying him off on another important errand across the campus.

Zaccheus frowned as he hurried toward the
imposing administration building. He wondered what could have
occasioned the president of the college wanting to see him. In the
two years since he had arrived at Center Hall College in
Tigerville, he had caught only occasional glimpses of the imposing
leonine Reverend Astin. True, he heard the prominent minister's
sermons in the campus chapel every other Sunday, and he had twice
watched the senior class graduation ceremonies on the Great Lawn,
listening to Reverend Satin's inspiring words of wisdom and
admonishment before sending a flock of newly ordained ministers out
into a sinful world. But in two years Zaccheus had yet to meet the
man personally.

Nervously Zaccheus licked the palm of his
hand and patted the back of his head to ensure that his stray
cowlick was smoothed down. Then he stopped, laid down his books,
and straightened his tie. He, Zaccheus Howe, was finally going to
meet Reverend Astin, one of Methodism's—indeed, America's—foremost
ministers. And once again he wondered what could have prompted such
an important summons.

He made a shortcut across the rolling campus
lawns to the administration building, a splendid ivy-clad
mock-Tudor castle whose steeply sloping blue slate roofs bristled
with chimneys and dormers. As usual, Zaccheus couldn't help but
admire the splendid surroundings. It was a far, far cry from the
world of Muddy Lake, Missouri.