Argosy Junction (35 page)
“Well it’s a nice story, and Matt reads so well. I like to hear him and besides, it means so much to him. He doesn’t preach; y’know? I think it’s the least we can do for him.”
Matt returned and without hesitation, started to read. Carol and Jake listened politely, clearly more interested in Matt’s reading ability rather than the content of the passage that he read. Lane, however, assumed an interested polite expression and tried not to fidget as he read about the conception and annunciation of the birth of John the Baptist. Something changed in her demeanor as the story turned to Mary. Her eyes grew cold and hard. Her hands clenched together tightly. Matt, aware of the turmoil going through her, slipped his hand over hers and allowed it to rest there comfortingly.
Carol watched the scene curiously. Lane’s unsettled appearance and Matt’s reassurance seemed odd to her. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing Matt so protective while continuing something that obviously made someone he cared about uncomfortable.
“That was great, Matt. I think your mom and I will walk to the station to meet Rex and Judith.” Jake stood offering his hand to his wife.
Before Lane or Matt knew what happened, the Rushby’s were out the door and half down the stairs. “Think they wanted to give you a bit of space?”
Lane giggled. It wasn’t an easy comfortable giggle. It was the nervous high-pitched sound that one often hears in a woman whose nerves are about to snap. “I didn’t expect—”
“What bothered you about Mary?”
“It wasn’t Mary. It was Christianity’s hatred of her. For once, I understand the Catholics. They at least respect her. God chose her above all other young women. Christians, and not just the
Brethren
, tend to treat her like a human incubator.”
“You’re right.”
Those words broke down walls he’d never been able to breach. Lane sobbed and railed. She was both broken and livid, simultaneously. “Why can’t you just be like the rest of them?”
“The rest— Who?”
“Christians,” she wailed. You’re supposed be a Christian, and yet you never talk like one. I never know what to think. I know you’re real and yet—”
“—and yet I don’t act like the
Brethren
so therefore I’m not
really
a Christian. I just think I am.” He paused to allow his words to sink in before he continued. “Did it ever occur to you that I’m the ‘real’ Christian here?”
Her eyes grew wide and she started to speak. Suddenly her hands clasped together tightly. “Did I misunderstand or did you imply that I might have my sonnet today?”
The change in subject confused him for a moment, but Matt recovered quickly. “Sure. You can’t laugh. No matter how bad it sounds to you, you can’t laugh.”
He brought them both Cokes and sat opposite her on the couch. He tried to meet her gaze, but couldn’t quite do it. With a slightly melodramatic clearing of his throat, Matt began.
“Touched—though not with man’s hands of brittle clay
My heart swells at the thought of your fingers
And eagerly waits through each passing day,
For memories of your touch that linger.
Every moment that I am kept from you,
Are tests of strength in frightening levels.
I pray each day for increased fortitude
From thoughts and temptations that bedevil.
When will you yield to the call of the One?
When will you shed your burdens and fetters?
Shall the day ever come when my wait is done?
When will I cease writing tear-stained letters?
Yielding to Him will caress my heartstrings.
Pray! Cry for rescue; true love to Him clings.”
Silence hovered. Matt continued to study the garish floral pattern of their once overstuffed, couch while Lane studied him. He grew murky and distorted as tears blurred her vision, but she tossed tears aside and cried silently.
The poem didn’t show Matt’s great hidden talent as Shakespeare’s successor. Both of them knew it was amateurish and weak, but it filled its purpose. Lane’s battered and bruised heart heard the call of Jesus once again, and the temptation to open the door was strong.
“I need to go home.”
Matt nodded, his eyes never leaving the couch. “I kind of expected it. Want me to walk you to the garage? I could drive you home and come—”
“It’d be too long of a drive. I don’t mean Mrs. Stafford’s. I need to go home, home. Montana. I need to talk to Mom and Dad.”
Finally raising his eyes to hers, Matt nodded once more. His red-rimmed eyes showed signs of forced back tears. “Will I ever see you again?”
“Matt!”
“I mean it. I need to know. I really thought I could do a friendship without romantic strings attached, but I’m not sure I can. If I need to, I have to prepare myself now or I’m majorly going to blow it one of these days.”
She stood and without a word gathered her things into her duffel bag. A pad of paper on Matt’s desk sparked an idea and she wrote for several minutes. Both notes she handed to Matt as she met him at the door. “One is for you; the other is for your parents.”
“I’ll walk you to your—”
“It’s fine, Matt. Really.”
“It’s not okay Lane. It’s just not. You’d never make it to your car alone on Christmas with that bag. Let’s go.”
At her car, Matt stowed her bag in the trunk and shut it with more force than necessary. The sound echoed through the mostly-empty parking garage. “I guess this is it. I’ll miss you. I’ll write if you do, but not before then—”
She kissed him. All the ache and loneliness of the months away from her family and the nearness of Matt yet not seeing him spilled into it. “I’ll miss you too. I’ll see you—well, I don’t know when, but I—”
“Bye, Lane. Just go. Please.”
~*~*~*~
Matt sat on his bed staring at the note. His parents, Uncle Rex, and Aunt Judy all partied in the living room playing
Scene It
and drinking more cheap wine than wise. He glanced at the clock. It’d been four hours. With a deep breath, he unfolded the note and read. “YEEEEEEEEEEHAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!”
Matt tore from his room and raced to grab his coat and gloves. His mother—half standing—demanded to know what was wrong. Without a word, Matt showed her the note, snatched it back when she was done, and then tore out of the house as though on a mission. Jake stared at his wife unable to determine if she was happy or scared.
Meanwhile, Matt impatiently rode the subway to Roosevelt Avenue, walked the three blocks to the church, and found Pastor Barney carving one of over a dozen turkeys waiting for slicing. “Here, give that knife to Jackie. She’s better at it than you anyway. I need you!”
Barney followed Matt as he dashed from room to room looking for a hint of privacy. “Isn’t there anywhere unoccupied in this place?”
“This hall is empty—”
“The bathroom! C’mon!” Matt dragged Barney around the corner and into the men’s room. “Read that!”
Dearest Matthew,
I think I get it. I want to go home and see the men who are no longer in the Brethren. I think that’ll help me see what you’ve been trying to show me all along. Christianity is more than what I’ve seen my whole life. It is about Jesus. Just Jesus. I’m not sure I’m ready to “Surrender All” so to speak, but I can finally hear Jesus’ “Tender Calling.”
It’s been hard to hear the voice of Jesus when all I wanted to hear was yours. I was tempted—I can’t tell you how much I was tempted to tell you what you wanted to hear in order to be with you. I hope you can trust that if I can bring myself to trust Jesus again, it’ll be genuine.
I love you. I don’t want to go. I’ll see you soon.
With All My Heart (at least for now while I can truly say it’s all mine to give),
Lane
P.S. The sonnet won’t be in every literature book for the next five hundred years, but it’ll never leave my heart. Please email a copy. I want to show my father.”
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Merry CHRISTmas
Warren,
She’s coming home, and I know she’s ready to listen. I think there’s a chance. My tears right now are tears of joy. I feel like a blubbering idiot, but I’m so happy, I don’t care.
Attached you’ll find my pathetic attempt at a sonnet that she asked me to send.
It’s ridiculously silly and old fashioned, but I have to ask anyway. If she does yield to the Lord, will you give me your blessing if I ask to marry her? I’m not sure what we’d do; I don’t know how we’d make it, honestly. We’d have to live here because there isn’t a lot of welding to be done in Argosy Junction, and my parents need the money I give them. I’d move them to Montana, but you don’t have much use for subway superintendents.
It’s a lot of information, but I had to be honest and show the whole picture.
Oh, please tell Lane that I have the ballad of Lorna Doone almost completed. I’ll send it ASAP!
Dancing like a fool,
Matt
Twenty-Five
“Anyone around here or has this place gone to the dogs— er sheep?” Lane called out to a seemingly empty house.
Her words echoed through familiar rooms. Nothing had changed in her absence. She wandered into her bedroom and found everything just as she’d left it. She swung her duffel bag onto the bed and changed into her favorite flannel lined jeans, a thermal undershirt, and a chamois flannel shirt. Once free of the braid she’d worn on the long drive she brushed her hair and let it hang loose to help keep her neck warm. Her Carhartt overcoat hung by the back door as though waiting for her.
The Jeep felt awkward and unfamiliar after months of driving her smooth Camry. She bounced over rough roads and realized that in her time away from the ranch, she’d grown soft. The ranch trucks were parked near the closest paddocks. Patience spied the Jeep first and realized who was in it.
“Lane!”
New lambs and the ewes were forgotten in the race to greet Lane. Heedless of the wool-covered jackets, Lane hugged the family, yet instantly regretting it. Her eyes and throat swelled and she debated between her inhaler or the epi-pen she carried everywhere she went.
Two puffs of the inhaler was enough to assure her she’d be fine. She held the pen in her hand as though confused. Warren watched her for a moment and then asked, “What is wrong with it?”
“I’m trying to remember why I didn’t use it when Matt and I were in New Cheltenham. I’m sure I had it with me. I always do. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Nah, it’s silly. I am going to go change though. I’ve been away so long that I’ve forgotten basic survival skills out here.”
Tad watched as she glanced longingly at a lamb. He’d always wondered if she wasn’t afraid of the sheep, but he knew she adored the tiny lambs. He’d seen that look ever since she was old enough to realize that she couldn’t ever touch one. He’d always wondered if it was the cuddly friendliness of the lambs or the longing for forbidden fruit.
“I’ll go with you, Lane!”
Patience’s voice broke though many thoughts. Warren, having just read Matt’s email that morning, was watching for a change in Lane—something to give him hope. Martha saw the brightness of Lane’s eyes, spring in her asthmatic step, and yet realized that there was something unsettled in Lane.
“Let’s go, little sis! I brought presents!”
~*~*~*~
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
I’m here. You’re not. Why not?
Matt,
I’m scared. The family fluctuates between walking on eggshells around me and treating me as if nothing has changed. I’m getting reacquainted with former Brethren. It’s still very awkward around Mr. Gideon. I know he is trying, and that makes me feel awful. I want to tell him that I understand, but I don’t know. What should I do? I see a difference in these men. I suppose you’d call it a new humility. They’re gentler with each other, and yet they’ve got a firmness about them that is different than the old ways. It’s like they’re all determined not to repeat the mistakes of the past. Am I crazy to think that they’re setting themselves up for failure? I think I’ll try to talk to some of the people I knew and give it a chance. You’d better be praying for me. I think I need all the help I can get. Didn’t you say something once about coming here in January? Care to make good on that *cough sputter* promise?
Strangely missing the big city and a few of its most worthy inhabitants,
Lane— with an “e” (Can you tell what we’ve been watching around here? Tad has borrowed stacks of movies from the Brysons.)
Matt read the email with great delight. It took every ounce of self-discipline not to book the next flight to Montana. This was something Lane needed to do alone.
He opened a new email and started to type, but his phone rang. Kirky Laas, Hope’s friend, was calling for information about Tad and Lane. Matt emailed Lane’s contact information to Kirky as they spoke. He wanted to ask about when and where they wanted his friends to sing, but managed to mind his own business as admonished in Thessalonians.
~*~*~*~
Lane snuggled in her own familiar bed for the second night in a row. She smelled the fresh sheets, and though no one could complain about Charity Stafford’s housekeeping, nothing could compete with Martha Argosy’s homemade laundry soap for feeling and smelling fresh and clean. Her laptop roared to live and email spilled into her inbox.
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Crazy
