The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story (15 page)

In front of Jack and a little to his left stood a man he did not know with the chalice. Young. Maybe new in town since Jack left. He was offering the chalice to each person, and they dipped their bread or took a sip. To each person he said, “This is the blood of Christ, shed for you.”

In the other aisle, Mrs. Calhoun took bread from Archie Sandstrunk, sipped from the chalice that Corinne O’Neal offered her, ascended back to the organ where she started playing another hymn.

“I Surrender All.” It was almost like they were at First Baptist doing an altar call. Because the crowd came forward; they kept coming. Bill had to retreat to the altar for more bread, and the chalice-bearers had to replenish their supply as well.

At last the lines died down and those men on Jack’s left went up to the altar. Bill Hall moved directly in front of Jack, and Jack looked up to see what he was doing.

Bill was offering him bread, and he had tears in his eyes.

Jack stood up. He held out his hands.

“This is the body of Christ,” Bill said, tearing a substantial piece and putting it into his hands. “Broken for you.”

Bill wiped his face with the back of his hand and stepped away.

“Amen,” Jack managed to say. The bread was homemade. He had never tasted anything so good.

“This is the blood of Christ,” the young man said, stepping forward and offering Jack the chalice as if it were his most precious possession. “Shed for you.”

Jack took it from him. He drank. He handed it back just as carefully.

“Amen,” he said.

The three of them stood there for a moment. Everyone was standing, the music was playing, something was supposed to happen next.

Bill took a step toward the center, still holding his plate of bread. The organ became quiet, and he raised his voice. “We’ve come to the end of our service. Thank you for coming. Go with God.” He stood still, the air expectant. “The deacons will stand at the back door to greet you.” Then Bill looked at Jack and took a
step toward him before he asked, “And, Brother Chisholm? Will you come back and say a few words again next Sunday?”

Jack looked at Bill.

Jack looked back to his father and Father Frank.

And then he nodded.

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Good,” Bill said. “Good.”

He took a step back to the center and spoke again as the people began to leave.

“Go with God,” he repeated. “Go with God.”

And so they did.

T
he Mayfield City Hall is on the square across from the courthouse, which is old, limestone, neoclassical, domed, and has stairs you aren’t supposed to use to look out over the countryside.

You also aren’t supposed to make out with your girlfriend or drink Coors Light up there.

These were all things Jack learned in his youth.

The City Hall had no such sterling memories attached to it. It had, for forty years at least, been in the storefront of an old general store, columns flanking a big plate glass window, and inside, a reception area, the city offices, and in back, the three cells of the municipal jail.

Jack had not been in the City Hall for—well, he couldn’t remember the last time.

Carlene Petsch was the city secretary. Carlene had been called “Petshop” in their youth, if only rarely to her face. It made her cry, got people sent to the office. She had grown into a hard, hefty woman, the kind of
hausfrau
who could bake an apple pie and then beat you to death with her rolling pin. Jack felt his already considerable anxiety ramp itself up as he closed the front
door behind him on the Monday morning following his sermon at Saint Paul’s.

“Hey,” he said, his voice calm. “Carlene.”

She looked up at him, waited for him to state the purpose of his presence. Jack supposed that she might have absorbed some of her boss’s animosity by osmosis.

Jack stuck his hands in his pockets, looked around the office. “Is, uh, James in?”

She looked back down at her desk at something considerably more important than him.

He wondered if it was the
People
with Katie Whatshername on the cover.

“The mayor is with someone,” she said finally.

She didn’t offer a seat, but he took one. He looked at the magazines on the side table—
Hill Country Reporter, Texas Highways
. He picked up a
TIME
, recognized it as the one that covered his scandal, put it back on the table.

He heard voices from the hallway, got to his feet.

A reporter and her cameraman preceded James into the reception area.

“Hey, Jack,” the reporter said when she saw him. “You get summoned too?”

“Hey,” he said back. “Summoned?”

“Speak of the Devil,” James said. “And he shall appear.”

“Thanks,” the reporter said to James. What was her name? Kathy? Cathy? Cathleen?

“My pleasure,” James said.

“You ready to talk to us?” she asked Jack.

“Not today,” he said.

“You may want to,” she said. “Before long.” She gave him a look he could not decipher, and then was gone.

James watched them exit, then he looked across at Jack with undisguised disapproval. Carlene was likewise unhappy at Jack’s presence, although her disapproval came off as a smirk.

“Thanks for saving Randy a trip,” James said.

“What are you talking about?” Jack said.

“I trust you saw Randy at your little enterprise yesterday.”

Randy had been sitting in his cruiser down the street from Mrs. Gutierrez’s house. Jack remembered that every time he looked that way, Randy was glowering and shaking his head.

But Jack hadn’t had much time to spare for Randy. Dozens of people had showed up. They had run a ramp from the sidewalk to the front porch—sunk posts, built rails, the whole thing. It was beautiful. Mr. Rodriguez had been their leader, but Jack supervised the unloading of cement, the mixing, the sawing, and did his share of hammering. Boys from various youth groups came—including Cameron Taylor, who had dug postholes. Men came from each of the churches—and some from no church at all. Mary’s boyfriend, Dennis, had pushed a wheelbarrow. Warren Koenig had brought two ranch hands—and smoked lamb chops.

Again, a block party of generous proportions grew—larger than the week before with more food, more drink, more people—and at the center of it sat Mrs. Gutierrez in her new wheelchair, nodding happily and talking nonstop to anyone who would listen.

“They are good boys,” she kept saying. “Such good boys.”

Randy apparently didn’t think so.

Nor, clearly, did James.

“Carlene,” James was saying, “are you finished with it?”

She smiled up at him, pulled something off the desk in front of her. She handed him an envelope. “All done, Mr. Mayor.”

He took it, extended it to Jack with a smile growing into malevolent glee.

“What is it?” Jack said without accepting it.

James’s hand did not waver.

“Mr. Mayor?” Jack said.

“Jack,” James said, “please find enclosed a cease and desist order from the city of Mayfield.”

Jack snatched it out of his hand, tore open the envelope. His eyes ran across the phrases: “Contractor operating without a license—without proper permits—disturbing the peace—health and safety issue—endangering the community.”

“What is this?” Jack said.

“I would think that even a person who didn’t finish college should be capable of reading a letter,” James said.

Carlene snickered, put her head down so she didn’t have to meet Jack’s eyes.

“I’m not a contractor,” Jack said. “Wait. Are you trying to shut down—”

“I am ordering you,” James said, “on behalf of the City of Mayfield, to stop your unlawful construction enterprise.”

Jack had never punched someone in City Hall. He paused to reflect on whether the proximity to the city jail should deter him, decided that maybe it should.

“That enterprise is a spontaneous attempt by the people of your town to help each other,” Jack said in a low voice. “A spontaneous eruption of charity.”

“It is anarchy,” James said. “It is unlawful.”

“It is the best thing that’s happened to this town in twenty years,” Jack said. “And you didn’t think of it. That’s what you hate about it.”

“Carlene,” James said, turning to go, “send my next appointment back.”

“We won’t stop,” Jack said.

“You have been warned,” James said without even looking at him. “Go ahead. See what happens if you continue.” He turned to go back to his office, but Jack stood stock still, looking after him. “Was there something else?” he said, without turning.

“I came to talk to you about Cameron,” Jack said in a voice barely above a whisper.

James turned back around, faced him, took two strides forward. “What on earth could we—you and me—possibly have to say about my son?”

Two feet. That was the physical distance separating them.

The metaphysical distance was something more.

Jack let it fly. “I thought maybe I could help Cameron a little bit with his accuracy. His footwork. Maybe talk to him about reading defenses.”

Each word spoken seemed to heighten James’s shade of red. His hands formed into fists.

“Stay away from my boy,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

“I—” Jack began.

“No!” James shouted. “Do you think I don’t know you? Don’t know what you’re doing?” He stepped even closer, and his voice dropped. “You’re doing what you always do. Well, it won’t work. If you come near my son, I’ll see that you’re run out of this town.”
He shook his head. “You’re not going to alienate my son from me. Or my wife.”

He took one step back without dropping his gaze.
Are we understood
?

Jack smiled, although it was not a happy one. “It doesn’t take a college degree,” he said steadily, “to know you don’t need my help doing that.”

James closed the difference between them in a fraction of a second. He grabbed Jack’s collar—he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt beneath his jacket—and it’s unclear what may have happened had the front door not opened at that precise moment.

James released Jack and took a step backward. A subtle smile snaked onto his face.

“Kathy,” he said.

Jack turned. Kathy Branstetter.

“Mr. Mayor,” she said. “Jack. Were you summoned too?”

“I was,” Jack said, taking a step away from James. “And now I’m leaving. Jamie.” Jack nodded to him.
Are we understood
?

Then he stepped through the front door, let it close behind him. His heart was pounding. He looked down. The letter was still in his hand.

He walked the three blocks back to the store, breezed past the media on the sidewalk—four more people than last week, he noted with dismay—and into the store, where his father sat talking with Charlie Gobel.

“Jack,” he said, “you remember Mr. Gobel.”

“Yessir,” he said. “How’s Molly?”

“All right, son. Bless you for asking.”

Tom turned to Jack. “Mr. Gobel was wondering if our contracting unit had any interest in carports.”

Jack looked blankly at his father. “What?”

“Could you get a team together to tear down his old carport, build one that would stand up straight?”

“A team?”

“Yes, son. A team of workers.” Tom looked at his son with his brow slightly furrowed.

Jack looked down at the letter in his hand.

He looked out the window at the media, who didn’t know it, but who were sitting on a much bigger story than they had ever imagined.

Jack looked back at his father.

And he decided.

“I believe we could work on it this Sunday after church,” he said. “If that works for you, Mr. Gobel.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Gobel said to Jack. He shook his hand. His grip was feeble, like a child’s.

“Thanks, Tom.” Mr. Gobel turned and inched his way toward the door.

“It’s our pleasure,” Tom said. Jack nodded after him.

“I thought it was about time someone from First Baptist got a little help,” Tom explained after the door closed. “I don’t want anyone accusing you of favoritism.”

“No,” Jack said. “That is the last thing we want.” He looked down at the letter in his hand.

“What’s that?” Tom asked.

“Nothing,” Jack said. He stuffed it in his coat. “Not a thing.”

“I’ve—we’ve—got good news,” Tom said. He stepped forward and hugged Jack.

The action was so strange—so out of character—that Jack almost stepped away before catching himself. He raised one arm,
patted his father gently on the back. “Hey. What good news is that?”

“Alison is coming to visit.”

Jack pushed his father back and looked him in the face. “Really?”

His father was beaming, nodding. Jack knew that he was too. “I just heard from the lawyers.”

“The lawyers? Not—not Tracy?” That seemed—clinical. Distant.

His father didn’t take his meaning. “Her lawyers called our lawyers in Seattle. Alison is flying in on January 18.”

“Next Friday,” Jack breathed. “Really?”

His father nodded. “Just for the weekend. She starts her new school on Monday. But, Jack—” He couldn’t go on. He raised a hand to cover his eyes.

“I know,” Jack said. He stepped forward and hugged his father again. “Thank you. Oh, and I’ll pay you back—”

Tom’s expression said that this was the stupidest thing he had heard all day. Jack put his hand in his pocket and found the letter. “Listen—”

He decided against it.

“That’s great. Everything’s great.”

Jack sat down behind the counter and got out the phone book, looked up James’s home number, dialed it.

He was not going to live in fear.

He was going to do the right thing. Whatever it cost.

Darla answered the phone. “Hey,” he said.

“Jack?” she said.

“The same,” he said. “Hey, I—”

“I know why you’re calling,” she said. “He called just now. I know you can’t—”

“I’ll be at the practice field this week,” Jack said. “Every afternoon after school.” He smiled. “Just watching. That’s all.”

Darla didn’t speak.

“Okay,” she said at last.

“If it’ll cause you problems—”

“No,” she said. “Thank you. It’s—very generous. I just—”

“Cameron is a good boy,” Jack said. He thought back to his work at Mrs. Gutierrez’s house. “And he could be a great quarterback. You tell me if it becomes a problem for you. That’s the last thing I want.”

“Jack,” she said, “there are things I love about James.” She sighed. “And things I cannot stand. Pease believe me when I tell you I have had to learn to stand up for myself.”

“You tell me, D,” he repeated. “I’d never want to cause you any pain.”

“I’ll tell Cam,” she said. “And I’ll let Coach Miller know you’re coming.”

“Whoa. Nuclear option?” Jack asked. The one person higher on the ladder than the mayor in a small Texas town is the football coach.

“He’s my only son,” she said. “And you’re right. He could be a great quarterback. A great person. He just needs the right nudge.”

“All right,” Jack said. “I’ll talk to you, D.”

“You know it, Twelve,” she said, and she hung up.

Tom raised an eyebrow.

“I’m doing a little coaching,” Jack said.

The eyebrow arched higher.

“Quarterback coaching.”

If that eyebrow went any higher, it was going to hit his hairline.

“Of my archenemy’s son.”

“Ahh,” Tom said. “If it’s only that.”

Jack snorted. “You mean Darla? Dad, that train left the station a long time ago.” He shook his head. “No. It’s just—you should see this kid throw. Reminds me of me. He could go all the way. Be something.”

“Just watch yourself,” Tom said.

“That, sir, is sage advice.” Jack patted his father’s shoulder. “Let me put a call in to Mr. Rodriguez about Sunday, and I’ll be ready to get to work.”

That afternoon at the football field, those few members of the team who were not playing basketball showed up for light practice. Cameron Taylor was one of them—and he had two receivers and a running back to throw to. They did calisthenics, some drills, and then Coach Miller set up Cameron at midfield and he and QB 2 began throwing routes.

Jack was sitting about halfway up the stands, the concrete cold underneath him. It was an overcast day, a little chilly. He had a Dr Pepper on one side, his journal on the other. It was open, whether to take inspiration for Sunday’s sermon or notes on Cameron’s QB play remained to be seen.

After Coach Miller got his linemen set up with the blocking sled, he walked over to the stands and waved Jack down to talk to him.

“Sir,” Jack said.

“You can call me Mark,” Coach Miller said. “You’re a grown man now.” He was in his sixties, iron-gray hair in a Marine Corps crew cut, an old-time football coach in an Internet world.