Texas Born (18 page)

The campus was set in an undulating park of
manicured lawns shaded by venerable oak trees and a smattering of
magnolias, dogwoods, and azaleas, which were now in full bloom.

With one exception, the six Tudor-style
buildings which comprised the campus were solid and clad in ivy,
with arched Gothic windows and thick leaded glass. The exception
stood in the exact center of the college, surrounded by the other
buildings. It was the chapel, and it crouched there amid the
kelly-green lawn, its proportions neoclassical and graceful, its
redbrick walls rising majestically to scrape the fleeting clouds of
the heavens.

Zaccheus skirted a gardener cutting grass
with a sickle. For an instant he stopped to watch the gleaming
blade slicing through the green. It had been a little more than two
years since he himself had wielded such a tool, and it served as a
potent reminder. He couldn't help but marvel, momentarily, at how
events had taken a turn. Inhaling the sweet perfume of the grass,
he smiled and wondered if that fresh, earthy smell would ever fail
to move him. Probably not, he thought. It was ingrained in his
bones.

He had loitered far too long. Now he hurried
up the sweeping stone steps and took another deep breath outside
the big double doors of the administration building—this breath was
for courage—and shifted the books he carried under his arm. He
pulled one of the doors open. It was heavy and creaked noisily.

Inside the hall, it was dark and chilly. If
the chapel was the spiritual symbol of the college which endowed it
with purpose and importance, then it was the administration
building which was the pragmatic nucleus of the campus.

As such, it had a utilitarian air about it,
but the church's influence was still apparent, Zaccheus noticed as
he crossed the dim hallway to a refectory table, a simple cross
resting in its center. Behind the table, to either side of the
cross, sat two young sophomores, their faces pink and scrubbed and
wholesome.

Zaccheus stepped forward and cleared his
throat. 'I'm here to see Reverend Astin,' he said nervously.

The nearest student looked up at him. 'And
you are . . .'

'Zaccheus Howe.'

The young man consulted a ledger; then he
glanced at his partner. 'Please hold the fort, Brother
Charles.'

'Certainly, Brother Arthur,' the other
student replied.

Brother Arthur got to his feet and came
around from behind the table. 'Follow me, please, Brother
Zaccheus,' he said pleasantly. 'You may leave your books here.'

Zaccheus put them down on the table and
turned toward a staircase curving up to the second floor.
Automatically he began to cross toward it.

'Brother Zaccheus.'

He stopped and turned around. The sophomore
was heading in the opposite direction, toward another
staircase.

'It's this way.'

Zaccheus followed him down a long corridor.
Tall doors lined both walls. Then the corridor narrowed. At the end
of it, his guide opened a small door. Zaccheus could see a flight
of narrow stone steps spiraling down to what was surely the cellar.
He looked questioningly at Brother Arthur.

'Reverend Astin is a great believer in
humility,' Brother Arthur explained virtuously. 'He lives what he
preaches. His quarters are a small cell in the basement.'

'Oh.'

Brother Arthur ducked through the doorway and
Zaccheus did likewise, and they descended the narrow spiral stairs,
their heels echoing on the stone.

The basement was dark and dank and moist with
mildew. It was lit at intervals by bare low-wattage electric light
bulbs. At the end of the long maze of corridors, the guide stopped
and knocked at a door.

'Yes?' The voice that filtered through was a
deep baritone, rich and resonant.

Brother Arthur pulled open the door. 'Brother
Zaccheus is here to see you, Reverend Astin.'

'Good. Send him in.'

Brother Arthur stepped aside to let Zaccheus
by. Zaccheus glanced at him and then slipped past him into the
room. He heard the door close softly behind him. Slowly he turned
around.

The room was indeed a cell, much plainer even
than the students' dormitories. Stone-walled and stone- floored, it
was no larger than eight by twelve feet. Placed diagonally across
one end was a small desk; along one wall was a neatly made narrow
cot with a well-worn Bible resting on the pillow. Except for a
small picture of Jesus in three-quarter profile, there was no other
decoration. No carpet. No curtains at the single tiny window near
the ceiling, which let a dim shaft of light into the Spartan
quarters.

Reverend Astin was seated behind the desk, a
sheet of paper and an envelope in front of him. He looked up.

The Reverend Thomas Astin looked twice as
imposing in that small, simple room as he did in the pulpit of the
chapel. No matter how squalid or splendid the surroundings, he
dominated everything around him. He was without doubt the most
handsome man Zaccheus had ever seen.

He was tall and erect and slender, and held
himself with inborn dignity. But it was his face, framed by that
leonine head of hair, which arrested. His eyes were of the purest
heavenly blue, warm and sincere. His aquiline nose and clean-shaven
face with its strong square-boned jaw gave him a look of power.

Yet generosity and goodwill flowed from this
man and seemed to reach Zaccheus in waves, enveloping him, casting
their spell, putting him instantly at ease.

The feeling intensified when Reverend Astin
rose to his feet and held out his hand to shake Zaccheus'. His grip
was firm but friendly and sincere, the gesture elegant and at once
eloquent.

'Brother Zaccheus. Please sit down.' Reverend
Astin motioned fluidly to the bed. Once Zaccheus was seated there,
the reverend slowly sat back down behind his desk. For a long
moment they looked at each other, one digesting the other. 'So we
finally meet, Brother Zaccheus,' Reverend Astin said at last. 'Your
teachers speak highly of you. In the two years since you have come
here, you have consistently been at the head of your classes. It
seems a pity that we cannot meet under anything but the most happy
circumstances.'

Zaccheus frowned. He did not know what the
reverend meant by that, or how to respond, so he remained prudently
silent.

Reverend Astin folded his hands elegantly and
seemed to study his cuticles. 'I have received a sad Western Union
telegram,' he said slowly. He looked suddenly weary and soulful;
his rich voice dropped an octave, and his eyes moistened. Even his
shoulders seemed to slump. Then he looked up again and met
Zaccheus' gaze. 'I never enjoy being the bearer of sad tidings,
even though that, too, is part of my job.'

Zaccheus stiffened. 'Has something happened?'
he whispered. A terrible sense of foreboding overcame him. 'At
home?'

Reverend Astin nodded. 'It's your
mother.'

Zaccheus felt a chill. 'Is she . . . ?' He
couldn't bring himself to say the word.

Reverend Astin shook his head. 'No, she's
alive,' he said soothingly. 'But she is apparently very ill.'

Zaccheus slumped back, his emotions mixed. On
the one hand, he was flooded with relief; on the other, he felt
frightened and helpless. When he spoke, his voice trembled. 'How .
. . bad is it?'

'Not good, it seems, otherwise Reverend . .
.' Reverend Astin quickly consulted the telegram before him. '. . .
Reverend Flatts would not have requested your return home. It is
his opinion that you should leave immediately.'

Zaccheus swallowed. His throat felt parched.
'But I-'

'Your examinations can be delayed.' Reverend
Astin cupped his hand and coughed delicately. 'I realize you're not
well-to-do, so I've already made arrangements for your travel. Here
are railroad tickets.' He pushed an envelope across the desk.
'Also, you will find five dollars inside. For incidentals.'

Zaccheus felt something he had never quite
felt before—a strange, peaceful glow of love seemed to settle over
him. A lump came up in his throat.

'We will all be saying prayers for your
mother,' Reverend Astin promised gently. 'Now, go and pack, Brother
Zaccheus, and honor thy mother.' He scraped back his chair and
rose, signaling that their meeting was over.

Zaccheus took his cue. Unsteadily he got to
his feet and reached for the reverend's proffered hand. He held it
tightly. 'Thank you, Reverend Astin,' he said gratefully. 'You're .
. . very kind. I . . . I don't know how I can ever repay you.'

Reverend Astin patted Zaccheus' hand and
smiled. 'Mothers are very precious, Brother Zaccheus. You just take
care of her.''

'I will,' Zaccheus promised him
fervently.

'You will find a carriage waiting in front of
the dormitory.' Reverend Astin released Zaccheus' hand and
consulted his pocket watch. 'If you hurry, you can still catch the
train. You'll have to change in St. Louis.'

The tears pushed their way out of the corners
of Zaccheus' eyes.

'Whatever happens,' Reverend Astin said
slowly, 'is the will of God. Rest assured that he will be there
with you. He will look after you and your mother. We are all his
children.'

Zaccheus stared at him.

'God go with you,' Reverend Astin said.

And Zaccheus was gone.

In St. Louis he had time to kill between
trains. The station was near the center of town, and although he
was ravenous with hunger, he decided it was a good opportunity to
explore the city. Better that than eat. Food cost money, but
sightseeing was cheap. He felt the five crisp one-dollar bills in
his pocket. For him, five dollars represented a fortune, but still,
it was all the money he owned.

He ignored the rumblings in his stomach and
lugged his battered cardboard suitcase outside. He looked up and
frowned. The sky was a uniform battleship gray and it was drizzling
steadily. With a sigh he set down his suitcase and turned up his
collar. A little rain was not enough to deter him. Not after all
those years on the farm. Whistling softly to himself, he picked up
the suitcase and began to walk.

He didn't get far.

Without warning the drizzle gave way to
thick, heavy raindrops. Lightning flashed yellow in the sky,
followed by reverberating peals of thunder. A moment later a solid
silver sheet of water came pouring down. He took refuge in the
doorway of a shop.

Set into each side of the recessed doorway
was a small glass window lit from somewhere above. He stared,
mesmerized, first at one narrow window, then the other. On his
left, behind the thick glass, was an elongated deep-blue velvet
neck draped with a strand of gleaming pearls. On his right, an
identical velvet neck displayed a fine gold chain from which hung a
filigreed charm. The center of the charm was a dried purple pansy
with a lemon-yellow center pressed between two rounds of glass.

His eyes misted over as he remembered the
locket his mother had given Reverend Flatts so long ago in exchange
for a year's schooling. He knew how much she'd prized that locket,
that it had been a treasured keepsake and the only pretty thing she
had ever owned. Even though she had never worn it, his mother had
sometimes taken the locket out, carefully unwrapping it from its
nest of faded pink tissue, simply to admire it. A slight smile
would play on her usually tight lips, and her eyes would suddenly
seem far away, as it transported her somewhere into the past.

Of course, the pressed pansy would hold no
memories for her, but he could imagine how she would treasure it.
Especially if . . . He took a deep breath. He'd never given his
mother a beautiful gift. Ever.

And in his pocket he had five dollars.

On an impulse, he picked up his suitcase and
turned to face the door behind him. It was made of gleaming brass,
its glass rectangle screened with a gathered pink curtain. Gold
script letters, outlined in black, read 'BENSEY'S JEWELERS.'

The expensive sheen of brass and the elegant
script letters intimidated him, and a keen instinct told him that
he was out of his element. He had never before set foot in a shop
that sold anything but the barest necessities. But before he could
change his mind, he grasped the doorknob and turned it swiftly.

The door opened smoothly, soundlessly.
Somewhere in the back of the shop, soft chimes announced his
arrival. A current of air coming in from outside stirred something
else: he heard a soft, musical tinkling above him.

He leaned his head back. Directly above him,
suspended from the high ornamental plaster ceiling, was an enormous
cut-glass chandelier, its prisms spraying myriads of rainbows in
all directions. For a moment he stared openmouthed at it. Never in
his life had he seen anything quite so beautiful.

He closed the door softly behind him. Then
slowly he set down his suitcase, his eyes wide and curious. The
carpet underfoot was plush maroon, a soft, muffling sea of velvet.
From somewhere wafted the elusively sweet, feminine fragrance of
lilies-of-the-valley. He sniffed appreciatively and tried to locate
its source, his eyes flicking around the shop.

He drew another deep breath as the luxurious
surroundings sank in, boggling his mind. The entire shop was
sheathed in pale-green watered silk, and lining all four walls were
mahogany-framed clear-glass counters filled with the deep, rich
glow of tier after tier of sparkling, dazzling jewels. He had no
idea of their value, but even to his untrained eye it was surely a
king's ransom in gold and silver and gems.

His eyes roved on and his initial awe gave
way to a heavy, sinking feeling. There was no one in the shop.

Sighing softly to himself, he bent down to
retrieve his suitcase and leave.

'May I be of help?' The musical, cultured
voice seemed to float from nowhere.