Sally had almost finished packing when she shouted
down the stairway, "Rich, is breakfast ready?" The answer floated up the
stairs somewhat apologetically, "Give me ninety seconds. I think I burned
the eggs." Eggs were rarely on their breakfast menu but this day was special
as Sally was taking the children to visit her folks. Since Richard Dickenson
couldn’t easily get away, and because Sally’s father was fighting cancer,
she felt she had to go see him, even if it meant leaving her spouse behind.
The kids wouldn’t mind missing a couple of days of school. In fact, they
would enjoy that. Besides, Grandpa was always a delight to visit, even
with his crippling, slow-moving cancer. His sense of humor, if anything,
was heightened during this crisis which hopefully would assist the healing
process, considering the prognosis at best was iffy. The family gradually
settled at the kitchen table, partially dressed, sleepy but not cranky.
Getting up so early was in its own way fun for the children even though
their eyes were barely open. Richard started the short blessing and all
chimed in by the fourth word: . . .Come Lord Jesus, Be our Guest, Let these
gifts To us be Blest. Amen.
Sally wanted to get on the road ahead of the early morning
traffic. Not early risers, 4:30 in the morning was unusual for the Dickensons,
especially the children. Celeste, the eldest, was the most difficult to
awaken. When she realized what was happening and where they were going,
her resistance faded and she promptly sounded the alarm for her brother,
Benjamin and little sister, Alicia. Benny bolted out of bed so he could
beat his sisters to the bathroom. Because of the pressure of the hour,
he didn’t aggravate them by lingering longer than necessary. Sibling rivalry
was not unknown in the Dickenson household but today they were all on their
best behavior. Illness and the unknown have a way of creating good behavior,
even among the young. Although the eggs were a bit burned around the edges,
they were devoured in a hurry, fortifying a hungry bunch soon to slip away
into the darkness toward the home of their grandparents. As Sally urged
the children to get ready, Alicia ran to her father clamoring for his attention.
"Daddy", she cried out, "I can’t go until I’ve told you my dream." Her
father, hesitating because he knew his wife was in a hurry, gave in. Alicia
crawled onto his lap and said, "I’ll be real quick, Daddy, but I’ve got
to tell you. I dreamt that you and I had gone for a walk. I don’t know
where it was because I had never been there before. I was getting tired
so when we came to an opening in the woods, we sat down. There, right in
front of us was a tiny chapel. We had never seen it before. We just sat
there looking when some butterflies fluttered by. One of them flew toward
us and rested on the back of my hand. I sat real still and watched it.
It didn’t move, and Daddy, it was so real and so beautiful I just had to
tell you. Then I woke up because Benny was yelling at me to get up. He
spoiled a perfect dream. Now I’ll never know how it ended." "Alicia, my
little sweetheart, that was a beautiful story. Maybe you’ll dream the same
dream again and then you’ll discover how it ended. Thanks for sharing it
with me," he said, giving her a big hug. "Now, you better run along before
your mother gets upset. Have a wonderful time with your grandparents and
give them a big hug from me."
Rafael, who had been driving nonstop for nearly two hours,
pulled into a sleepy truck stop where pancakes or tortillas were offered
to weary travelers who stopped to have their thirsty trucks and cars filled
with fuel. The coffee was hot, too hot, so Rafael didn’t get much of a
fix. Crawling back into the truck, he and his two companions chugged off
into the darkness aiming the vehicle in the general direction of the big
city. The stars were on duty although they shed little light. Before long,
Rafael’s eyelids began to droop but the truck just lumbered on. He’d nod
a bit, then awaken with a jerk, re-aim the pickup and pressed on. The nods
began to come more often and he was slower to recover as the vehicle lumbered
down the road with an irregular cadence. The truck, without any assistance
from its driver, drifted steadily toward the center of the highway. It’s
progress was suddenly jolted as it crossed the oncoming lane, slamming
with vengeance into an innocent automobile with its four occupants. Rafael
and his companions were awakened suddenly by the impact, precariously riding
the vintage truck as it ricocheted into the ditch on the wrong side of
the road. The compact car was no match for the truck as it swerved to avoid
the collision. Only the stars witnessed the crash.
Richard Dickenson had just finished tidying the house
and was settling down in his office when the phone rang. To him, the ring
was ominous although he had long known not to pay attention to omens or
their foreboding ilk. Even so, he was rarely in his office this early,
and most would-be callers, except in emergencies, respected his privacy.
Reluctantly he lifted the receiver. The voice was that of a stranger, also
that of someone deeply distressed. "Rev. Dickenson?" questioned the caller.
"This is Richard Dickenson. Is something wrong?" he replied. "Reverend,
I deeply regret to inform you that there has been a tragic accident on
old Highway 11 just before it runs into the Freeway." "Oh no. Don’t tell
me. Was anyone hurt?" "I’m afraid there were multiple injuries." "Multiple?
Tell me, it wasn’t a red compact, was it?" "Yes, it was a red, later model
car with four passengers we believe." "You think? Don’t you know? "Where
are they now?" "We’ve taken them from the wreckage to the Charne Street
Hospital." Wreckage. Richard hated that word, especially now. Somehow,
the way the officer spoke the word was ominous. As much as he wanted to
dismiss the feeling, he knew something dreadful had happened. "Sir," said
the Reverend, "I’ll be right there." "Thank you. I’ll meet you at the emergency
entrance."
Rafael and his companions, cushioned by the cab of the
truck, escaped with only minor injuries. Before fleeing the scene, they
removed their belongs, stripped the license plates from the vehicle and
disappeared into the darkness. Unemployed, they were traveling light after
scouring the Herald want ads, hoping to find work in the city. Although
not really desperate, nor in despair, they hoped to disappear into the
crowds of the inner city while looking for employment. The truck was borrowed
for the occasion, borrowed without its owner’s knowledge or consent. By
the time it would be traced to its rightful owner, they reasoned, they
would have disappeared. They hadn’t known each other until they met in
a bar earlier in the eve of their abortive journey. Half sober, half serious,
they picked up the want ads and began looking. A bold ad caught their attention:
WANTED: Factory Workers, Good Pay, Housing Provided. In smaller print they
read that no qualifications for the job were required. That was all they
needed. The morning was cold and damp. Rafael, protected somewhat by the
steering wheel, managed to escape any serious injury. The other two, however,
were badly battered as they careened through the windshield. The impact
threw them clear of the crash into a muddy ditch which was their salvation
as it cushioned their landing. Bewildered and frightened, they crawled
out of the ditch and assessed their injuries. Glancing at the mangled car
and disabled truck hopelessly stuck in the muck, they panicked. Without
looking into the wrecked car to see if there was anything they could do,
they decided to get out of there. No vehicles in either direction had passed
so they had not been seen. They quickly moved into the brush keeping their
distance from the highway.
As the dawn turned into daylight, they recognized how
muddy their clothes were. The blood oozing from their cuts had dried into
an ugly, crusty mess. Rafael, still carrying the license plates along with
his bag of clothes, realized that their looks would be terribly suspicious.
Then he noticed a ditch with some putrid water remaining in some of the
stagnant pools. There the nervous culprits cleaned up the best they could,
put on other clothes and buried their tell-tale duds along with the license
plates. It was at this point they decided to separate, hoping to rendezvous
later that day at the employment office which luckily they managed. Now
fugitives, their hopes that they would find jobs and get lost in the crowd
was accomplished. Since they were paid daily by cash, there would be no
paper trail. Their disappearance was mentioned briefly in the local press
but when no clues were found, the search slowly faded away.
Richard scribbled a note to his secretary and raced out
of the office, hoping and praying that his family had escaped serious injury.
He was still numbed by what he had heard, fearing the worst while hoping
the best. Hope and fear were not the best companions on his mad chase to
the hospital. Visits to any hospital were never routine but this time it
was different. As he neared the Charne Street Hospital, his composure,
usually unruffled although emergencies always deeply affected him, was
anything but calm. He was literally a basket case and he knew it. Officer
Golecky was there to meet him as promised. His role as police officer was
almost as diverse as that of the clergyman. He, too, had been in the emergency
ward many times and had great empathy for the stunned minister. "Where
are they? May I see them?" "Reverend, I’m afraid I have some bad news."
Putting his hand on the shoulder of the young man, he led him to a chair
in a quiet corner of the room. "Rev. Dickenson," he said softly, "there
was only one survivor." "One survivor?" "I’m sorry. So terribly sorry.
It’s one of your little girls and I’m afraid her chances are not very good."
"What about my wife? And the other two? You can’t mean . . ." "I’m so sorry,
Reverend. They were all killed, almost instantly I believe. They never
had a chance. An old pickup truck evidently crossed the divider and hit
them head on. That’s all we know at the moment. Apparently the driver left
the scene of the accident because there was no trace of anyone else except
the abandoned truck." "Is it possible to see my daughter?" "Let me check."
After what seemed like an eternity, Captain Golecky returned. "She has
been unconscious but you can see her now. She is all hooked up and her
looks may startle you. Come, I’ll take you to her." Alicia, except for
a slight bruise on her forehead, didn’t seem to be badly injured. Her injuries,
her father surmised, must have been internal. He had seen this many times
with tragic results. As Richard leaned over his daughter to kiss her on
the cheek, she opened her eyes and recognized her dad. "Daddy, she said,
"I knew you’d come." "Alicia, my little darling, I’m here. I won’t leave
you, I promise."
Her eyes began to close. After a few minutes, the emergency
doctor came by and told Richard that everything possible was being done
for her but she had suffered a terrific blow and was hemorrhaging severely.
He also informed the minister that the others were killed instantly and
did not suffer. He cautioned the distraught husband and father against
having too high expectations for Alicia. She may regain consciousness again,
momentarily, and she may not. The damage may be beyond hope. Richard detected
a tear in the doctor’s eye which told him it was more hopeless than hopeful.
Alicia stirred again and her eyes opened part way. "Daddy," she whispered,
"are you still here?" "Yes, my love. I’m right here." Leaning over, he
touched her pretty face, kissing the tip of her pudgy nose. "Daddy, I saw
them." "Who did you see, Alicia?" "Mommie, Celeste and Benny." "Where did
you see them?" "They were at the end of a long tunnel standing in a bright
light." "Standing?" "Yes. They had their arms outstretched like, like they
were welcoming me." "They were signaling you to join them?" "I think so.
It was so beautiful, Daddy." "Do you want to join them, Sweetheart?" "Not
unless you come, too, Daddy." Her eyes became heavy and she fell into a
deep coma. Richard lingered for awhile before he asked to see the rest
of his family. When he returned, Alicia, was still asleep. He touched her
face and kissed her nose again. When he realized that she was no longer
breathing, he searched for the nurse. She came, sought in vain for a pulse,
and sadly turned toward the anguished minister. With a choking voice she
spoke almost inaudibly, "I’m sorry, Sir, I think she is gone. Let me get
the doctor." The physician confirmed that she had joined her mother, brother
and sister.
Briar Hill Community Church took the tragic news with
horror. Richard had been their pastor for nearly five years and was very
much liked, deeply appreciated and able to minister to their various needs
most adequately. They also loved his wife and many adored the children
who were well-behaved (for the most part), lively, friendly and fit into
the scene quite admirably. Unfortunately, there were those who didn’t appreciate
their minister, who had misgivings from the very beginning, and some even
harbored resentments usually because of rather trivial matters. On occasion,
their minister was unable to minister to some of their needs and demands.
Typical of most congregations perhaps, the great majority were grateful
for the Dickensons and were deeply moved by the circumstances.
Others, however, were less sympathetic and wondered if
Richard hadn’t done something remiss to warrant God’s disfavor. This kind
of attitude did influence some of the other parishioners who knew of these
negative sentiments. They questioned their motives as well as inappropriate
innuendoes and mindless comments yet remained silent. The memorial for
the Dickenson family brought the community together. The church was packed
with the overflow stretching across the parking lot into the fellowship
hall. Never had there been a crowd like this at any religious event in
town. Richard, unable to participate even though he wanted to give his
departed family the eulogy they deserved, left that up to his parishioners.
They outdid themselves by inviting neighboring ministers, denominational
officials, distant family members, community leaders and teachers, past
and present, who had taught the Dickenson children as well as former members
and friends of the congregation. Richard was both pleased and saddened
by the attention which brought back many fond memories, memories that no
longer could be shared with his wife and children. It was a celebration
of their lives but it was also a miserable time of loneliness and helplessness
mingled with a trace of bitterness. He could hardly blame an anonymous
driver who was either asleep or drunk, or both, who probably had driven
most of the night judging from where the truck was registered. Nor could
he absolve himself because he not only allowed his family to drive off
early in the morning but had encouraged it. He could have rearranged his
schedule and gone with them. And so guilt added to his agony. He also cried
out more than once wondering where God was that early fateful morning.
Of course he knew God wasn’t to blame but even so, there was the feeling
of isolation, of being abandoned. Richard felt more like a little boy than
a man of the cloth. His title of Reverend meant almost nothing to him then
as he chastised himself mercilessly. Over and over again he relived his
agony: ‘If only I would have hugged my kids more, if I would have told
my wife more indelibly that I loved her more than words could tell, if
only I would have played more with little Benny and found more time for
Alicia to snuggle on my lap as she loved to do.’
Richard had only a vague memory about the memorial service.
He vividly remembered the private graveside service and took comfort in
his extended family and colleagues who stood with him at that moment. The
Scriptures were comforting and the prayers meaningful. But that was not
as true with the public memorial service which was most meaningful and
helpful to the parish. Richard Dickenson was in a daze. The shock of it
all had engulfed him and the beautiful service, the innumerable flowers;
the tributes he only half-heard. The awful realization of what had happened,
the emptiness of his home and his own soul were tormenting him night and
day. Wracked with far too much pain, the Reverend was continually unable
to cope with some of the parishioners who questioned, not in his presence,
but among others, his lifestyle. They openly wondered if he was having
an affair and God used this means to punish him. They also suggested that
he perhaps had other hidden sins that demanded reproach. Unfortunately,
too many of the other parishioners and church leaders were either intimidated
by these absurd implications and those who spawned them, or they simply
felt that justice would eventually prevail. Rev. Dickenson questioned over
and over again why he was on trial by these antagonists, with no jury to
listen, no attorney coming to his defense. Those were intensely dark moments
in the days and weeks following the untimely and unnecessary deaths of
those he loved so dearly.
CHAPTER TWO
"Daddy. . . Daddy." Richard threw back the covers and
bounced out of bed heading for Alicia’s room. When he got there, Alicia
wasn’t there. But he distinctly heard her voice. It was loud enough to
awaken him and familiar enough so he knew who was calling. It was the same
voice that spoke to him in the emergency ward at the hospital three months
earlier. "Daddy, I knew you’d come." Sadly, he returned to bed but sleep
would not come. He wondered if he were going mad, not crazy, but mad. Was
he dreaming or hallucinating? Was it a powerful case of wishful thinking?
These ninety days were miserable. His concentration was gone. He was forced
into writing his sermons, word for word, or he’d ramble or forget what
he was preaching about. On occasion he missed appointments, nothing serious
but aggravating, not only to himself but to his parishioners. Most were
so kind. Perhaps too compassionate. He wondered if his people could be
too sympathetic because he knew people could be too kind. The old adage,
‘Kill ‘em with kindness’ came to mind and he felt guilty accepting dinner
invitations and even laundry assistance. He did everything himself but
sent his shirts to the laundry that promised not to overly starch the collars.
Parishioners whom he barely knew called to offer their condolences and
various services: golf, getaway opportunities, to be their guest at service
clubs, dinner engagements, concerts. He was overwhelmed by their generosity
and thoughtfulness while knowing that this too would pass.
Rev. Dickenson, in spite of the positive, affirming attention
was tormented by the seemingly misguided, disgruntled parishioners. Not
sure of their identities, he couldn’t be certain that all were members
although they certainly were a part of the parish. One anonymous phone
call in the wee hours of the morning might be sanctioned as people do make
dialing errors, but several in a row seemed to be designed to aggravate
or frustrate. He considered having the calls traced but decided for the
moment that he’d rather not know. The same was true of the anonymous letters
sent not to the office but to the house. He had heard the malicious rumors
that he had been having an affair and that he was a saint in the church
but a demon at home. He had heard that he abused his children and deprived
them of many things while feigning poverty. That was really a slap at the
congregation because they had indeed taken adequate care of their minister.
Some even suggested that he had an alcohol problem but had learned to disguise
it amazingly well. He was assured by his medical friends who were concerned
but not overly worried that his sleepless nights, intense grieving and
prolonged depression were all normal responses. With hints that time is
a great healer, Richard endured. Although he perceived that he was merely
going through the motions, his board assured him that he was doing well
and the district leadership affirmed their sentiments.
Eventually, Richard confided with the core leadership
of the church about some of the accusations, anonymous calls and letters,
his sleeplessness and doubts about his effectiveness as their leader. He
told them about hearing his children during the night and wondered what
he should do about the parsonage. All their possessions, clothes, toys,
pictures were unrelenting reminders of much happier days. He didn’t know
if he should give them away, store them or live with them until he could
think more rationally. He was advised to store them, refurnish the manse
to his liking, or even take an apartment. The congregation could always
lease the parsonage. In short, they wanted him to stay on and were willing
to wait as long as it took for the intense pain to lessen, knowing it would
never go away. Richard, a young man in his mid-thirties, had a bright future
ahead. He was also told that they wanted to be a part of his future as
long as he was willing to put up with them. He felt this was most magnanimous
but still worried lest he might unwittingly be taking advantage of their
graciousness. When grief and guilt intermingle with respect and collegiality,
the outcome is not always certain. Rev. Dickenson went home with mixed
feelings. He admired his trusted colleagues and their compassion. But in
no way could he exploit them by giving less than they deserved. Nothing
was resolved about his deepening grief and depression nor were they able
to come to a conclusion about the untimely and demeaning harassment by
a tiny minority who knew how to hurt a man when he’s down.
All this time had transpired and nothing was improving
for Richard. On his own, he went to see a psychiatrist who reassured him
that his behavior was typical of a person who had had such trauma. Although
the terms he used were not totally comprehensible to Richard, he read between
the lines and came to the conclusion that both he and the congregation
needed a respite. He thought about this over and over, tried praying about
it but couldn’t seem to make the right connection. He was on his own, he
felt, and would have to work this out with or without his colleagues and
parishioners. When he conferred with his board, they were persistently
against his proposal that he take a ninety-day leave-of-absence. When they
couldn’t talk him out of taking a leave, the matter of compensation arose.
Their recommendation would probably be rubber-stamped by the congregation
but still the board worried what their response might be. Richard tried
to get some reassurance in a round about way that the board would investigate
more thoroughly to find the dissidents so they could be sentenced to silence,
particularly for the next parson. Evidently Richard hit a nerve because
he was asked point blank if he had any intention of not returning after
the ninety days. Rather than stir up any more trouble, he said he fully
intended to return providing health was not an impediment. What the board
did not understand was what he meant by impediment. What Rev. Dickenson
meant was that he would return if two things occurred. The first, naturally,
would be his ability to cope with his grief and guilt adequately enough
to be able to serve them suitably. The other condition was not as clear
because he felt that if the troublemakers were not encountered, he or anyone
else would be seriously hampered serving as their minister. Then both his
health and that of his congregation would be imperiled. Later, when confiding
in close friends who were not of his parish, he was not only encouraged
but urged to take a leave-of-absence.
On The night of the Briar Hill Congregational business
meeting, the matter was pretty much routine. After a brief discussion,
the congregation decided unanimously to give their minister a leave-of-absence
for ninety days with full salary for thirty days and fifty per cent salary
for the remaining time. Meanwhile, his possessions could remain in the
parsonage until his return. If for any reason he would be unable to return
to the parish in ninety days, additional time would be negotiable. If he
were unable to return to the church at all, he would have ten days to vacate
the parsonage after the ninety days. It was that simple. And fair. No legalese,
no hidden clauses, just a lot of trust. Richard agreed, in writing, and
the time of departure was set. Since Richard wanted to get away from both
responsibility and memorable moments and places, he began to consider his
options. He counted his obligations, double-checked his resources, added
in the salary which was somewhat modest because the value of the parsonage
was excluded. He then drew some conclusions. To his family or in-laws he
could not go; that would defeat his purpose because they would not understand
his need for solitude. He would not impose on friends or neighbors even
though there were generous offers. A freeloader he was not and this was
not the time to become one.
As he laid out his options, the phone rang. The voice
was familiar. He’d recognize it anytime, anywhere. "Reverend?" "Yes, Miss
Zimmerman." "You cut that out. Mrs. Zimmerman was my mother. I’m Elsie
to my friends." "I know that Miss Zimmerman. It’s always good to hear your
voice." "You busy, Reverend?" "Never too busy for you." "I got a proposal
for you, Mr. Richard. I was sad to hear you going away but glad it won’t
be for long. Three months? "Three months." "That’s too long but it’ll go
quickly. Here’s my proposal, Reverend. I got a sister, Anna. She’s a little
younger than I and better educated but she’s living alone. Point is, she’s
got a big old house out in the boonies where there is a lot of quiet and
solidude . . ." "Solitude." "That’s what I said, solidude. There’s enough
solidude to last a lifetime there. I give her a call, Reverend, and you
know what she say?" "What did she say?" "She said you’re welcome to live
in her big ol’ house as long as you want. No pay, just help her wash the
windows and walk the dog. Stuff like that." "Do you mean you told her I
was leaving and you asked her if I could stay at her home for awhile?"
"You got it, Preacher Boy. You need solidude, you got it. Ain’t no place
like that this side of the Rockies. San Pablo, tucked away in the desert
not far from the Mexican border, is a hole-in-the-road but it is kind of
an interesting hole with a gas station, grocery store, one of those rundown
mom ‘n pop hardware emporiums, a saloon and an old abandoned church hunkered
alongside a neglected cemetery. Her house used to be next to the manse
when there was a church and a school in town. They both died and now they
bus the kids God only knows where. Where God went when the church was abandoned
I can’t say. Anyway, Mr. Richard, her house is an old Victorian, two stories
plus an attic. Might need a coat or two of paint but other’n that, it’s
habitable." "Habitable? You’re sure of that?" "Dead sure. I could live
there myself if I weren’t so crippled with arthritis. Can’t navigate steps
anymore so I’m going to stay right here. But that’s the place for you,
Reverend. I can feel it in my bones and I don’t feel much anymore except
pain. This is a good feeling and I don’t get them very much anymore either.
Well, Young Man, you think it over. I’ll call again tomorrow, same time.
Goodbye, Mr. Richard."
Wham. Wham wham. "Someone’s at my door," mused Richard,
"but I don’t recognize the knock. Come in, the door’s unlocked." In burst
Art, his church treasurer and financial secretary. Briar Hill tried to
get two people to share these jobs but no one wanted to do all that work.
Art knew more than he probably wanted to know about everyone, particularly
their giving habits. He also knew that a person’s money is indeed where
their heart is. But he was airtight about who gave what and never tipped
his hand, not even to the minister and he had served during several regimes
as he liked to call them. He plunked himself down on the well-beaten leather
couch after shaking hands, let loose with a huge sigh, and came right to
the point. "Pastor," he intoned, "I’m sorry about the news. We hate to
see you go. We’re going to miss you around here but it’s good knowing you’ll
be back. What do you recommend we do while you’re gone? Three months isn’t
a long time, I know, but it’s a long time to be without someone at the
helm of this unwieldy old ship. Is there any one you know who might help
us out in the interim? Some retired minister with still some life left
in him? We don’t want one of those rookies just out of seminary." "Arthur,
my friend, I have given that a little thought but that’s all, only a little.
Actually, it isn’t up to me to choose my successor." "Successor? We’re
not talking about a successor, we’re talking about a substitute, a pinch-hitter.
Someone to fill the gap, not take over." "Yes, I know. There are some seasoned
retired ministers that could do a good job." "Can you name one or two for
starters? I think we should get going on this right away." "Art, let me
think it over. Have you checked with the district office?" "Nope. Not yet.
Wanted to pick your brain first. Those guys’ll probably send some stuffy
old has been which we don’t need and don’t want. You give it some thought,
Richard, and I’ll get back to you. Tomorrow too soon?
Oh, by the way, I checked on your insurance. You were
smart to take out a policy on Sally. I know this is presumptuous, but I
know your income will be rather curtailed for awhile. The insurance could
help you out in a pinch." "I don’t plan to touch it, Art, not right away
at least. I want to think about it and perhaps create some kind of a memorial
for Sal and the kids. Maybe a scholarship or something. Thanks for mentioning
it because I had really forgotten about it." "Richard, one more thing.
I’ve got that little cabin in the mountains. It’s homey, off the beaten
path and it just sits there. The little woman wants to go to the lake this
summer so it’ll be empty for the next three months. If you say the word,
it’s yours. No strings attached, no interruptions, no pesky parishioners
nearby, and best of all, no bills. Personally, I was hoping the congregation
would have given you full pay for all three months but they like to pinch
pennies. Think about it and let me know. No rush. Check with you soon.
‘Bye."
The next evening, Richard Dickenson was pouring over his
personal files. He reread his Living Trust with its Will, Pour-Over-Will
and Inventory. He studied his insurance papers and jotted down all his
obligations. At the present there were few. The cars were paid for although
he only needed one now. The other went to the junkyard. He looked at some
personal papers, his ordination certificate, the baptismal certificates
of each of the children, their birth certificates and the wedding license.
So many things now were redundant when only a few days ago they were so
vital. His eyes drifted to the pictures on the wall which led him to take
a peek at some of the photo albums. It was overwhelming. Tears welled up
in his eyes and he could no longer see so he set the albums down. Nestling
into his favorite chair, he closed his eyes. He thought of praying but
no words would come. He thought of writing Sal and the kids a letter but
didn’t know how to send it. He thought of calling someone on the phone
but couldn’t think of anyone he wanted to talk to. He visualized of a nice
cup of coffee but he never drank alone.
He finally quit brooding when his daydreaming was interrupted
by reality. His attention shifted to San Pablo and its lack of grandeur
yet mystical sense of isolation. He imagined a charming mountain cabin
with all the comforts of home with its own kind of seclusion. He remembered
how kind people could be. Art, with his fine career and all the luxuries
of life; Elsie, with nothing of worldly goods but with a heart of gold.
Still, both marvelous people who unobtrusively could wipe the tears from
his eyes, even in absentia. He looked again at the materials he had gleaned
from the travel agency with both long-term and short-term possibilities.
The long-term possibilities now looked quite attractive, and quite affordable.
The possibilities were promising from a suite in a residential hotel to
a magnificent Victorian to a cozy cabin. Richard couldn’t escape wondering
what Sally would prefer, and the kids. Somehow, they were still not only
in his heart but in his plans. He knew now that his choice would indeed
include the sentiments of his departed family.
CHAPTER THREE
It didn’t take Richard long to decide what to do since
the consensus was virtually unanimous. His physician, congregation, neighbors
and close friends all agreed that taking some time to get away would be
good for the soul if not the body. His immediate family, however, thought
he might be running away from his problem which was their way of telling
him to stay where he was unless he wanted to come home. Living with in-laws
was in his judgment not an option although he loved his late wife’s parents
dearly. Living with one of his siblings or even with his parents wasn’t
an adroit option either. His head told him to get out of town, settle down
in a business or residential hotel and enjoy the fine amenities they afford.
His pocketbook told him to accept the offer of the mountain cabin but his
heart won out. San Pablo was everything Elsie told him and more. This dusty
town was literally a ghost town yet showing vestiges of better times. There
were several rundown old houses, occupied but that is all. There was no
sign of any loving care. The tenants probably paid the rent but precious
little was done to improve the property. Richard had no difficulty finding
Anna’s house as it was the only structure with any charm in the whole town.
As he got out of his car, he paused to admire the flowers,
most of which were perennials although some beautiful annuals had recently
been planted. No doubt Anna Randolph had a green thumb but it too was growing
old. The garden needed some attention and the lawn could use a manicure
plus a shot of nourishment. Glancing at the old house, he noticed that
the paint was beginning to peel here and there although nothing serious.
It was stately in its own way, nothing a little TLC couldn’t cure. Ninety
days might actually go rather swiftly surmised the incoming resident. Just
then he heard a door shut with a bang followed by a lean, melodic voice,
"Reverend, is that you? For lan’ sakes, you’re better looking than Elsie
intimated. But then, the poor dear, she is probably losing her vision.
Happens when you get old, you know. Still, there’s a difference between
losing your sight and losing your vision. When you lose both you’re a goner.
Well, so much for this kind of prattle. Come on in. We can get your belongings
later. Right now we gotta see if ol’ Anna still knows how to cook coffee."
They entered directly into her living room. The sight
caused Richard to stop and slowly survey the whole area. "Mrs. Randolph,"
he muttered, "this is gorgeous. Are all these antiques yours?" "Reverend,
I wasn’t born yesterday. Most of this was old when I was young. My late
husband and I were antique nuts and filled our homes with antiquity. This
place looks like a museum but it isn’t. Not yet anyway." "You have good
taste, Mrs. . ." "Please, just call me Anna. Most everyone does. Come on,
let’s get the coffee pot going. We can rummage through this obsolescent
junk later. Black or otherwise?" "Black. A bit of sugar if it’s convenient."
"Sorry. I don’t serve sugar with my coffee. But I do have some honey. Gives
coffee a little more class I think. For me, I take it straight and stout."
As Anna scurried about, I noticed a huge chocolate cake on the countertop
which looked like it just came out of the oven. Rather, I assumed it was
chocolate on the inside. That turned out to be a wrong assumption. She
must have read my mind because she reached for the cake while addressing
my thoughts, "Only angel food cake for the Reverend but a devilish chocolate
frosting never did anyone any harm."
Richard was intrigued. He had known Elsie, her sister,
for five years but there was no comparison. She was single although it
never was an issue with her. Her mannerisms were a bit rough which matched
her grammar. But Anna was different. He wondered what brought her to this
forsaken place and even more, what kept her here. Again, Mrs. Randolph
must have been reading his mind as she addressed that same issue. "My late
husband dragged me here forty years ago kicking and screaming all the way.
We were city folk and I loved every minute of it: the noise, traffic, congestion,
parks, museums, concert halls, theaters, art galleries, shopping and all
the rest. But no, he found this old Victorian, it was old even then, and
fell in love with it. Out of the blue one day he told me we were moving.
I said we were not moving and here I am. Now I love it so much I refuse
to leave. The house, that is, not the community. It wasn’t always like
this, however. In the good old days, this town had a little class but not
any more. Even so, I like it here and have turned Elsie down a dozen times.
I just won’t go back to the city, any city. I’ve been converted, Reverend.
. ." "Please call me Richard." "Me call you Richard? Now don’t be silly.
I’m Anna, like it or not, but you’re not Richard, not to me. I never have
called my minister by his first name and sorry, I’m too old to change now.
Anyhow, Reverend, try a little of this honey in your coffee. You’ll like
it. Guaranteed."
When they finished their coffee and a huge piece of cake,
she said it was time to see where he was going to stay. She never did say
‘if he was going to stay’ nor did she ask him if he approved. She led him
to the staircase where she said she’d follow him. She didn’t want him to
know how difficult stairs were for her. On the way up, she paused at the
landing, motioning him to sit down. It was there she informed him that
she hadn’t bothered with the upstairs for years. She did all her living
on the first floor. This meant he would have the second to himself. Richard
envisioned a stuffy room with frilly curtains, an antique bed covered with
pillows with walls full of old family pictures. He was prepared and vowed
not to become unnerved if it were way too feminine and antiquated for his
blood. After a good rest, they continued climbing. At the top of the stairs
was a spacious salon, a waiting room, comparable to a small hotel lobby.
Anna paused and simply announced, "Reverend, here is where you will receive
your guests. For privacy, you can use that nook over there and for groups,
there is plenty of room." Richard was awestruck. He couldn’t have imagined
anything like this. "Now let’s enter the parlor. I call this the parlor
because it is more like a sitting room than a bedroom but you can see for
yourself. This is the foyer where Mr. Randolph conducted his personal business.
The room through that door is the bedroom which is now a guest room which
is now your private chamber. It has its own bath with both a tub and a
shower. I liked a tub and he wanted a shower. We never compromised, we
simply agreed if you know what I mean."
Richard was speechless. Anna kept on talking. "Mr. Randolph,
"she said with little emotion, "dabbled in many things: cattle, lumber,
land, stocks and bonds, antiques and books. He never had too many books
but didn’t read most of them. He was simply a collector. Liked the bindings
and covers and the older the better. I dusted them occasionally but paid
little attention to them. When I sold them, I suppose I actually gave them
away but it made someone happy and I was glad to get rid of them. I suppose
he made a lot of money over the years but he never told me and I never
asked. He’s been gone now ten years, rest his soul. He’s laid to rest outside
the church in the neglected cemetery which I used to tend until age caught
up with me. He loved it up here and would retreat for hours. When meals
were ready, I rang a bell and usually he came around but not always. He
was unpredictable but other than that he was kind, loving, considerate
along with being a bit stubborn and forgetful." "Did you have any children?"
"Yes. One died in childbirth. The first one. The second was killed in the
war. The third, this is still difficult for me, was thirty-six when breast
cancer whisked her away. No children, which was fortunate for her but not
for me; her husband remarried and disappeared. We heard once or twice but
he vanished without a trail. We tried finding him but he didn’t want to
be found. I hope he’s happy now. I do wish him well although I don’t think
too much about him anymore. So much for this. Let me show you the rest
of the upper parlor." "
Upper parlor. Amazing. Are you sure, Anna, you want to
do this? I could be quite an imposition, you know. Your tranquillity will
be invaded. You might even hear ghosts wandering about at night." "Nonsense.
A little action around here is just what I need. Come on. I want you to
see the quaintest bathroom in San Pablo. Look at that tub. Right out of
Queen Victoria’s royal residence. The shower is right out of San Pablo’s
general store. Great match. The water used to be heated on a wood stove
and carried by the servants to the bath. Imagine. Maybe that’s why they
took baths weekly. Anyway, there’s plenty of hot water, towels enough to
outfit an army. And look here, a chute to send them down to the laundry.
Swish, just like that. I have a cleaning woman who comes every week so
you don’t need to hold back." "Mrs. Randolph . . ." "Anna, please." "Anna,
this is too much. You’ve been too generous. You’re making me feel guilty."
"Guilty? Balderdash. Come on, let’s get out of here before you change your
mind.
Here, let’s try this little alcove. I need to rest my
weary bones a minute." They sat down on the well-worn couch tucked away
in the corner, quite out of sight. "Tell me, if it isn’t too much of an
imposition, about the tragedy. I’ve lost a son and a daughter but that
happened years apart. I cannot imagine the pain you must be suffering to
lose your whole family at once. If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll
understand." "Mrs. Randolph, for three months I have grieved, at times
almost inconsolably. Being a minister, it was assumed that I had to show
strength, not weakness, and so I tried terribly hard not to burden my congregation
with my grief. Consequently, I didn’t talk much about it, kept my feelings
bottled up rather than let them out. The congregation was very supportive,
particularly at the beginning and couldn’t do enough for me. As time passed,
everyone more or less returned to normal except their minister. The invitations
became fewer and fewer but there was still some awkwardness as they found
it difficult to treat me, not as though nothing had happened, but in the
same ways as before. Then they had a lot of distractions. My children,
bless their hearts, stole the affection of much of the congregation although
not everyone was enthralled with their antics. PKs . . ."
"What do you mean by PK?" "Preacher’s Kids. They are notorious
in many ways, often high achievers and sometimes a bit rebellious." "Were
your children rebellious?" "Not really. They were probably too young. They
did get a lot of love and affection from their mother, and I tried to spend
as much time as possible with them. Now, if I could do it over again, I’d
have carved out more time to be with them. Sometimes we let our obligations
rule over us and good intentions sometimes are illusive." "Do you still
harbor some guilt because you feel you may have sacrificed your family
for the sake of your ministry?" "Anna, you are pretty perceptive. Yes,
I suppose I do harbor some guilt but I think that is a natural reaction
when one suffers intense loss." "Reverend, what happened to you is hardly
natural. It was traumatic, frightful, grisly. I can’t find words to express
it. We will never be able to take the place of your family but we can become
family.
Tell me, were there any in your congregation who were
unable or unwilling to sympathize with you?" "Strange you should ask. None
of them confronted me directly but some evidently felt there was some quirk
in my lifestyle that warranted punishment." "Quirk? By quirk do you mean
an obstacle, an irregularity in your life?" "Anna, I used the word quirk
because I didn’t want to use the expression they implied." "That you had
sinned against God and your congregation, right?" "Right. I had sinned,
therefore God struck my family dead. What kind of theology is that? It
is nothing I ever preached. God is gracious and merciful, kind and benevolent
but he is also just and demanding. That I know. I can understand people
trying to justify life experiences, including tragedies, illnesses and
catastrophes, but sometimes we just can’t explain them . . ." "And so God
gets blamed. He becomes a scapegoat for all sorts of maliciousness, doesn’t
He? Tell me about your distracters. What sort of things were they saying,
if you don’t mind my asking? "No, I don’t mind. I, I think I should talk
about it. It is something I’ve kept bottled up partly because I didn’t
feel I should share this with anyone. These are the kinds of things I could
share with Sally." "I understand." "These accusations of course were rumors
because no one ever confronted me directly. One insinuation hurt terribly
because I was accused of having an affair which caused God to punish me.
Even if it were true, what kind of a God would maliciously take away a
man’s family to punish him? Not my kind of a God." "He wouldn’t be my kind
of a God either."
"Another hearsay was even more ludicrous. Someone had
suggested that I had been embezzling the church, nibbling away at the finances
little by little which had caused difficulties in our overall stewardship."
"Were you having financial trouble?" "No. Not really. We had our moments
when expenses seemed to exceed income but nothing serious that I know of.
But the embezzlement accusation caused me a lot of distress. That would
be a serious matter if true but to imagine that someone could think that
I was a crook really bothered me." "It would me, too. Reverend, I think
you have had enough grief to last a lifetime without some disgruntled parishioners
adding fuel to the fire. Come on, let’s go down and get your things. You’ll
probably want to freshen up a bit before dinner." "Please, Mrs. Randolph.
You aren’t going to fix dinner for me." "It’s already fixed, Reverend.
Now all you have to do is eat it. I just love a young man with a huge appetite.
Makes me feel useful again."
The end of the first three chapters . . . The manuscript is now
published. You may order it from the publisher at Virtualbookworm.com/
or from your favorite bookstore .