Texas Born (23 page)

'I'm sorry that you've had to hear it from
me,' Collins said sincerely. 'I assumed you knew. A year and a half
ago, Mr. Howe mortgaged the farm and he hasn't been able to keep up
with the payments. Even worse, in my estimation, he hasn't been
working the land to generate any income.'

Zaccheus sat there in stunned defeat. His
ears were ringing from the shock. His father had mortgaged the
farm? Nathaniel? The same Nathaniel who had never, as far as he
knew, set foot in a bank? To whom nothing was as sacred as a man's
outright-owned piece of land?

'He must have had to mortgage the farm
because of my ma's health,' Zaccheus said quietly. 'He's got to
take care of her. There are doctor's bills.'

'And the mortgage payments?' Collins pressed.
'Why doesn't he take care of those?'

'Because,' Zaccheus said bitterly, 'he
obviously doesn't have the money.'

'He's got a month,' Mack Collins said softly,
'before the bank forecloses. After that, the bank will own the
farm. I'm sorry, but we have no choice.'

'A month!' The bank reeled around Zaccheus, a
merry-go-round gone out of control. 'Does that mean that you're
turning me down, Mr. Collins?'

'Yes, it does.'

Zaccheus whirled in Reverend Flatts's
direction, his blue eyes pleading. 'Please, Reverend! You've got to
help!'

'Mack,' Reverend Flatts said slowly, 'what if
I cosign a loan for Zaccheus?'

Collins frowned. 'Well, that depends on how
much he needs.'

Reverend Flatts looked questioningly at
Zaccheus. 'Well?'

Zaccheus' brain began to spin. Eight hundred
dollars was what he needed, but half that amount would ensure
getting his mother into the clinic, at least for a while. Still,
four hundred dollars . . . Something told him to reduce even that.
'Two hundred,' he said quickly.

Collins shook his head. 'I'm afraid not.
Fifty, a hundred. No more.' He glanced at Reverend Flatts. 'You're
overextended too, Reverend. I know, I know.' He held up a trembling
hand and smiled grimly. 'The Lord will provide. But I'm afraid that
what holds true in heaven doesn't always hold true on earth.'

'But, Mack!' Reverend Flatts whispered. 'A
life is at stake here! I'll personally guarantee the loan!'

Collins shook his head again. He was a member
of Flatts's congregation, but he was a banker first and a
churchgoer second. 'Reverend, I let the church mortgage the
parsonage when the church needed a new roof-'

'Yes, yes, I know,' Reverend Flatts said
testily.

'You've already told me. I've overextended my
credit.'

'Not that I don't trust you,' Collins said
smoothly. 'It was my trust in you that led me to give you a loan in
the first place.'

Reverend Flatts sighed. 'I know that,
Mack.'

Zaccheus sat there numbly. He didn't know
Reverend Flatts had had to borrow the money for the new church
roof. Now, why hadn't he thought of it before? Muddy Lake was,
after all, a poor congregation.

Well, one thing was for certain. As far as a
loan was concerned, there wouldn't be one. He got wearily to his
feet.

As soon as they got outside, Reverend Flatts
shook his head. 'I'm sorry, son. I tried. I don't know what else we
can do.'

'The way I figure it,' Zaccheus said slowly,
'is this. If help isn't available here on earth, perhaps . . . just
perhaps . . . it will be forthcoming from heaven.'

In Reverend Flatts's study, Zaccheus nibbled
on the end of the pen and gazed dully at the blank sheet of paper
on the desk in front of him. Composing the letter was a far more
difficult task than he had imagined. Ever since he could remember,
Nathaniel had instilled in him a fierce sense of pride and
independence, and it had become ingrained in his bones. Asking for
help was something which simply wasn't done. A Howe never went
begging.

You 're not begging
, Zaccheus told
himself fiercely.
You 're asking for a loan that you'll
repay.

Phoebe came in with a steaming cup of coffee,
set it down in front of him, and withdrew quietly, closing the door
softly behind her.

Zaccheus hesitated, not knowing how to begin.
But slowly he began to write:

Dear Reverend Astin,

It was very kind of you to make the arrangements for
me to visit my family. You cannot know how I appreciate it, and I
will never forget your kindness or how much I am in your debt. My
mother is far more ill than I imagined.

You told me I should stay with her as long as I deem
it necessary, and I appreciate that too. In view of all you've done
for me, I am loath to ask for more help, but in this I have no
choice.

My dear mother is suffering from tuberculosis, and I
don't think I need to go into the nature of that illness. However,
the doctor here believes it is possible for her to improve if she
is sent to a sanatorium in Asheville, North Carolina.
Unfortunately, it is an expensive undertaking, one which my family
and I are unable to provide. I know it is asking for a lot, but I
humbly beseech you to find it in your heart to allow the college to
lend us the sum of eight hundred dollars in order that my mother's
health might be restored. I would, of course, gladly undertake any
job after college hours—or if necessary put a moratorium on my
studies—to repay it speedily.

I repeat, I am loath to beg for help, but you,
Reverend Astin, are the sole person I can think of to turn to.

Thank you.

Very respectfully,

Your brother in the Lord,

Zaccheus Howe

Zaccheus read the letter through, folded it
carefully, found an envelope, and slipped it inside. He sealed the
flap firmly shut.

Then he stared at it for a long time before
he went off to mail it.

Nine days had passed since Zaccheus had
mailed his letter. Phoebe parted the lace parlor curtains and saw
him sitting outside on the front porch steps, his back to her as he
waited for Mr. Peabody, the postman. He had given Reverend Astin
the Flattses' return address, since mail delivery in town was more
prompt than out in the rural areas.

She let the curtains drop back in place,
smoothed a hand over her hair, and went outside. 'Zaccheus,' she
said softly, coming up behind him.

Startled, he turned around swiftly and his
eyes consumed her. She was wearing an ankle-length peacock- blue
dress with a high white lace collar which sheathed her swanlike
neck in delicate arabesques all the way up to her chin. She'd
strung the sterling chain with the pansy charm outside the lace;
against it the delicate filigree was set off to perfection.

'Waiting for Mr. Peabody?' she asked.

He nodded wordlessly.

She tucked the dress under herself and sat
down beside him on the front steps, her arms hugging her knees. For
a while they sat without speaking. Then she eyed him sideways, a
shrewd light gleaming iridescently in her large black pupils.
'You're not going to become a minister once it's time for you to be
ordained, are you?' she asked quietly.

He felt a peculiar sensation spread through
him, as if someone had made an incision in his skin, peeled it
back, and peered deep into his soul. Slowly he turned to face her.
'What makes you say that?' he asked sharply.

'Oh . . .' She shrugged her narrow shoulders
eloquently. 'I . . . I don't know.' She regarded her pale hands
studiously. 'It's just a feeling I have.'

She tried to draw more out of him, but he
wouldn't discuss it any further. Still, for the moment she was
satisfied.

He hadn't tried to deny it.

It was the thirteenth day since Zaccheus had
mailed his letter.

'I'm sorry, Zaccheus,' Mr. Peabody, the
postman, told him. 'There's nothing for you yet. Maybe it'll come
tomorrow.''

'Yes, maybe tomorrow.' Zaccheus sighed
painfully. Tomorrow. There was always tomorrow.

But if the money from Tigerville didn't
arrive soon, his mother might not see many tomorrows.

Seventeen days after Zaccheus mailed his
letter, Mr. Peabody came running up the street, his black cracked
leather shoulder bag bouncing up and down behind him as he waved an
envelope in one hand. 'Zaccheus!' he was shouting hoarsely.
'Zaccheus Howe!'

On the Flattses' front porch, Zaccheus
suddenly sat up straight. Just when he had been ready to give up
hearing from Reverend Astin, here was Mr. Peabody doing the
unthinkable: actually interrupting his regularly scheduled rounds
to run—
run
—to him with a letter!

So there is a God after all!
Zaccheus
thought with crazy relief.

He jumped to his feet, let out a 'Whoop!' and
charged down the street to meet the postman halfway. The excitement
was infectious. People stopped whatever they were doing and came
out on their porches or leaned out of windows, mouths agape. Mr.
Peabody had never been known to hurry before.

The front door of the Flattses' house opened
and banged shut. Phoebe, a starched white apron tied around her
waist, stood on the porch, her face puzzled as she wiped her hands
on a towel. Then, seeing Mr. Peabody at a run, she tossed the towel
aside and raced after Zaccheus.

'Thanks, Mr. Peabody!' Zaccheus shouted with
happiness. 'I love you!
I love you!
' He gave the stunned
postman a bear hug, kissed both his cheeks noisily, and then
snatched the letter out of his grasp.

Mr. Peabody scratched his head and shook it.
'Must be one important letter,' he muttered. 'I never got kissed
before!'

Important! Zaccheus laughed and jumped into
the air with relief, tears of happiness flowing from his eyes. It
wasn't only important—it was a matter of life and death! The money
inside—a check or money order, surely, since the envelope was so
thin—would mean his mother's salvation! Her life would be
prolonged. Her suffering eased.

Phoebe finally reached Zaccheus, faint from
the exertion. She watched him fumbling with the envelope, caught it
for him when he dropped it, and smiled as he tore it open.

Inside the envelope were two folded sheets of
vellum stationery. He unfolded them and frowned. He had expected a
check or money order, but there was neither. For a moment he looked
down at the ground, afraid he' dropped it.

Well, perhaps it would follow under separate
cover, he thought soberly. And eagerly he began to read.

My son in Christ,

It was with a grievous heart that I received your
letter stating the precariousness of your mother's health, for
neither did I realize that she was so seriously ill. I suggest that
you take a leave of absence from your studies in order that you can
be with her in her time of need. Be assured that my prayers— and
those of the entire college—are with you and your dear mother.
During services last Sunday, the entire congregation offered up a
prayer. I am certain that our good Lord heard them, and the rest is
now in his hands.

Zaccheus stopped reading. His heart was
pounding furiously and his forehead pulsed as though it would
explode. It was not prayers his mother needed so desperately, but
eight hundred dollars so she could be sent to the clinic in
Asheville. He skimmed the rest of the letter, his heart growing
heavier with every word:

I fully understand your request for a loan of eight
hundred dollars, and it is my sincerest wish that such a request
were in my power to grant. Alas, we are all merely the Lord's
humble servants, instruments of his will. A minister has the power
to call upon God's help to heal the soul, to refresh the spirit.
Unfortunately, many of the earthly needs which both the college and
myself would like to help come true are outside our powers. We are
not a banking institution, but a spiritual one. We do everything
within our power to take care of our own—and as one of our future
ministers, you are one of our own. That is why we undertook to
provide you with a scholarship. You were highly recommended, and we
are all proud of having you in our midst.

But even colleges need money. It is true that our
kind benefactor, God rest his soul, left behind an endowment, but
even we spiritual leaders are governed by the laws of the layman's
earth. The money left to us—and there is never enough to do our job
adequately—is stipulated by the trust to be used for education,
maintaining the college, and scholarships. Not a penny may be used
for any other emergency, no matter how exigent . . .

Zaccheus felt a cold seizure gripping him.
The message, however convoluted, was clear: there would be no money
forthcoming, at least not from Reverend Astin or his precious
college. The letter, however kindly worded, was an intricate dance
neatly skirting the issue, never saying 'no' outright, but making
that message crystal clear nonetheless.

A low, mournful keening sound escaped
Zaccheus' lips. What kind of church was it, he asked himself, that
refused to help send a poor woman to a clinic so that her suffering
might be alleviated? Since when were trusts and scholarships more
important than human life?

He glanced scornfully at the letter. From the
way it was worded, Reverend Astin—the much revered, much beloved
Reverend Thomas Astin—did not sound so much a man of God as a
politician.

Quickly, listlessly, Zaccheus skimmed the
remainder of the letter, Phoebe, reading it over his shoulder,
silently mouthing the words:

As spiritual leaders, we will do everything we can,
even though our hands are tied financially. But forsake not hope,
my son, in Jesus Christ the Lord, the son of God, because He is
all-powerful. Did He not cure the leper? Did He not cast illness
out of the sick? Did He not raise the dead to living? And does He
not offer us all everlasting life? He is merciful, our Lord and
Savior Jesus Christ, kind and loving, and, let me assure you, a
single prayer uttered unto Him is worth a million pieces of
silver.