Brother Word (31 page)

Travis’s grin immediately vanished. He opened his eyes and stared at his nephew.

“I don’t want Uncle Trav to go to hell, Daddy God. He jus’ . . . he jus’ needs to see You the way I see You. He jus’ needs to love You the way Mommy taught me to love You. Okay? Can You show him how, Daddy God? That’s all I want today. That’s my prayer. Amen.”

Travis released his now-sweaty hands from Eddie’s small grip, speechless. Chills ran up and down his spine. The sensation frightened him; it was similar to when he was a kid and had stayed up to watch
The Exorcist
one Saturday night. He hadn’t been able to sleep without nightmares for two weeks.

“You okay, Uncle Trav?”

What was all that talk about going to . . .
hell
? What on earth was Andrea teaching his nephew, filling his seven-year-old mind with such a horrible myth?

Eddie was tugging on his sleeve again. “Uncle Trav?”

Travis snapped out of his mini-trance and looked at Eddie. His mouth had suddenly gone dry. “Y-yeah?”

“You okay?”

The question was asked with the unbelievable naïveté of a seven-year-old, the same way the youngster asked why the sun never fell from the sky or why the ocean was always blue.
You okay?

No, he was not
okay
. He’d just heard his nephew pray that his uncle wouldn’t go to hell. What sort of twisted mind trip was that?

“Y-yeah, Eddie. Yeah, I’m okay.” He cleared his throat. “I just need to go get some water . . . my mouth is real dry.”

“You want me to come with you, Uncle Trav?”

“No,” Travis replied, a little too quickly and a little too harshly. He got up from the pew, having forgotten all about his article on church attendance. Having your seven-year-old nephew tell you, in so many words, that you were going to hell was not an easy thing to digest.

After pausing at the water fountain to relieve his parched throat, he stumbled out to the parking lot and made his way to Andrea and James’s minivan. The vehicle was locked, but Travis sat on the back bumper and buried his face in his hands. He didn’t know what was more terrifying—the first time he’d watched
The Exorcist
or hearing Eddie pray that his “Uncle Trav” wouldn’t go to hell.

Chapter Fifty-four

W
HEN THE SUN ROSE
the next morning and Pop still hadn’t shown up at the house, Chance’s initial concerns swelled to full-fledged worry. Whenever Pop got drunk, his surliness reached epic proportions and he became a magnet for violent activity. Making matters worse, the old man always kept a switchblade in his right sock, something he’d been doing ever since he returned from Vietnam.

At a quarter to ten, unable to wait any longer, Chance picked up the phone and dialed Telfair Williams.

“Telfair, this is Chance. You have any idea where Pop is?”

“Last I seen Bennett, he was over to Lucky’s.”

Chance groaned. Lucky’s Liquor was one of Pop’s well-known places to waste his money. “Telfair, you know Pop didn’t have any business at Lucky’s. You should’ve got him out of there—or called me.”

“Got him outta there?” Telfair started laughing. The sound was like the furious beating of a raspy, hollow drum. “Chance, you know as well as I do, nobody can’t make Bennett do nothin’ he don’t wanna do. I bin stopped tryin’ to tell him what to do. As long as he pay me good money to take care of the yard, I ain’t got no beef with him. ’Cause if he want to drink, he gon’ drink.”

“Well, do you have any idea where Pop is now?”

“Naw, can’t say that I— Oh wait, now. He probably over to the Happy House.”

“The Happy . . .
House
?”

“That’s what we call it. It’s a boardinghouse over in Bossier City. Lotsa tourists from the gamblin’ boats go there to do . . . well . . . uh, y’know . . .”

“Why would Pop be in a boarding— Never mind. Telfair, listen—can you go get Pop? And bring him here . . . No, wait—can you get him and take him to our boat on Caddo Lake? Can you do that for me?”

“I respect what you tryin’ to do, Chance. I really do. But I don’t git paid for no shippin’ and receivin’.” The man made a brief noise that sounded like he was sucking his front teeth. The few front teeth he had left, that is. “A job like that’s gonna cost you.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Chance said, sighing. “What’s it going to cost me?”

Telfair made the sucking-teeth sound again. “A hunnerd bucks.”

CHANCE WAS FEELING STRONGER
, but not quite well enough to drive, so he called Mardy’s Cab Service to take him to Caddo Lake.
Jacqueline
was moored in her regular spot, having been placed back there after being briefly impounded as evidence. If the case against Jucinda had proceeded to trial, the fishing boat would’ve still been kept under lock and key, but it appeared both sides would accept the plea bargain. As such, the boat was free to be used by its owners.

Aboard the boat now, Chance stretched out on a deck recliner, letting the sun’s rays warm his body from head to toe. He had no doubt Pop would be here, because Telfair would definitely see to that. Telfair might not be the smartest handyman to have around, but he was a decent worker and his allegiance to the almighty dollar was stronger than a seeing-eye dog’s loyalty to his blind master. Telfair would do just about anything if you padded his pockets right.

Closing his eyes, Chance dangled his legs over the side of the recliner and let his mind drift. When thoughts of Nina tried to find their way inside his head, he quickly replaced them with thoughts of Pop. He remembered the time Pop came home with the biggest fish he’d ever caught. Chance forgot how many pounds the fish had weighed, but it had been snared from the Gulf of Mexico a few miles out of the port of New Orleans. Pop had the fish gutted, stuffed, and mounted—for years that colorful trophy had been his pride and joy and the catalyst for many a story to narrate to admiring visitors. But when Jacqueline had died, Pop took the fish down from the wall and put it in storage. Jacqueline had never liked the big fish hanging on a wall in her house, and Pop, out of respect, guilt, or a mixture of both emotions, didn’t have the heart to look at it anymore.

And then there was the time Chance had caught
his
first fish. He had been five years old, and he and Pop had been fishing on the banks of a small creek in Nacogdoches. The two had been fishing peacefully for an hour when Chance had felt that now-familiar tug on the end of his fishing line. And then the lure had completely disappeared under the water’s surface.

“That’s it, Chance!” Pop had yelled. “The fish took the bait! The fish took the bait! Reel him in now, slowly . . . That’s it . . . You got him now . . .”

Pop had allowed Chance to do all the work, excitedly calling out instructions from just a few feet away. When the fish’s gills broke the water’s surface, Chance had become as excited as Pop. Up until that point, all the fish that had been caught had been snared from the end of Pop’s hook, never his own.

But at last—he was about to catch his own fish! He had scooted closer to the shoreline from his spot on an elevated ledge, eager to capture his long-awaited prize. But in his anxiousness, his bare foot had slipped on a wet tree branch. His forward momentum, coupled with the slippery footing, had propelled him headlong into the shallow water.

Chance’s fall hadn’t been dangerous, though, and once Pop saw that his son was alright, he’d started laughing hysterically. “You didn’t catch that fish, Chance,” he’d said, doubled over and wheezing for breath. “That fish caught
you
!”

A scraping sound on the side of the boat caused Chance to open his eyes. Sitting up on the recliner, he saw Telfair struggling to help Pop on board, albeit without much progress. Pop was unresponsive, like a deadweight on Telfair’s arms.

“Here, let me help,” Chance offered, before standing and realizing he hadn’t yet regained full strength in his own limbs. But with the little help he
could
give, they were finally able to get Pop situated in one of the recliners after a few minutes.

“Pop, come on, wake up,” Chance said, gently shaking his father’s shoulders. Pop’s eyes fluttered open and he began softly moaning. The puffy skin encircling his eyes magnified his bloodshot pupils, causing the upper part of his face to resemble a bad Halloween mask.

“Pop, come on, now. Can you hear me?”

“Wha’s tha . . . Who’s tha . . . ?”

“Pop, it’s me. Chance.”

“Chance . . .”

Chance looked at Telfair. “Listen, thanks for doing what you did. I know it must’ve been a lot of trouble to get him in your Jeep and all.”

“Yeah—that old man weighs a ton when he passed out, drunk and all. But if you pay me to do a job, I’s gon’ do it.”

“I know. Uh, I can take it from here, Telfair. Thanks again.”

With a tip of his baseball cap, Telfair climbed off the boat and walked back to his Jeep. Chance glanced back at Pop, but the old man had closed his eyes, lost in another hangover-induced pipe dream. Sighing, Chance walked over to the boat’s controls, started the engine, and steered
Jacqueline
out into open waters.

FORTY MINUTES LATER
, Chance set down his two fishing poles and walked back to the other end of the boat. Either the fish weren’t biting or he was a lousy fisherman, because he hadn’t had so much as a nibble on his lines.

It’s the fish . . . they’re just not biting today,
he lied to himself.

Pop was still dozing, but Chance knew how to rouse the old man. Taking the pail of water meant to hold the fish he should’ve been catching, he tossed it at Pop, splashing water all over him.

“What the—!” Pop’s upper body jerked wildly as his eyes snapped open, and he began wiping at his face.

“Sorry, Pop, but that was the only way I could think of to get you up.”

“What in the . . . Boy, is you crazy?” Pop shook his body back and forth, flinging droplets of water off him like a wet dog. “You ain’t have to soak me up like this.”

“Soak you up? Pop, you were already soaked.
Inebriated
, that is. Drunk as a skunk guzzling down a pint of Jack Daniel’s.”

“I don’t drink no Jack Daniel’s. I likes the—”

“
Whatever
, Pop. That’s not what I’m getting at.”

“Well, what you gettin’ at, then?” Pop tried standing up, discovered his one good leg was still unsteady, and plopped back down in the recliner.

“We need to talk, Pop,” Chance said, sitting down next to his father. “We didn’t finish the conversation we’d started earlier.”

Pop rubbed at his eyes. “I still don’t know what you talkin’ about. We didn’t have no earlier . . . conver . . . earlier . . . conver . . .” He yawned.

“Yes, we did,” Chance said, slightly lowering his voice. “You were telling me about Vietnam. About what you saw over there . . . and what happened to you over there.”

Pop threw his head back and started laughing. “Now I
know
you’s crazy, Chance. ’Cause I don’t tell nobody about what went on over there.”

“Yeah? And why do you do that? You think it’s better to keep things bottled up inside? You think nobody can understand the horrors you saw? Huh? You think—”

“Watch that mouth now, Chance. You talkin’ about things you don’t know nothing about. You weren’t there. You’d know why we keep silent about that if you was there.”

Chance nodded, seeing that his plan was working like a charm. Pop had sobered up real quick once Chance kept pushing that Vietnam button. Now he had the old man’s complete attention.

“I’m talking about things I know nothing about, is that right?”

“Tha’s what I said.”

“Alright. Then let me switch subjects and talk about something I do know about. Something that
you
haven’t experienced.”

“What you talkin’ about, Chance?”

“I’m talking about what I’ve been doing for the last two years.”

“What you mean? The last two years, you been running from Jucinda. Can’t say I blame you, though. That woman crazier than a two-headed bat.”

“Let me show you something, Pop.” Chance leaned to his left and retrieved his duffel bag. He took out a black three-ring binder and handed it to Pop.

“Wha’s this?”

“Just open it and read it, Pop. I would read it aloud to you, but you need to see it for yourself.”

The binder contained Chance’s collection of clippings from a half dozen newspapers in the South, describing various occurrences of unexplained, supernatural healings. The common thread woven throughout each article was the mention of a “man with no name and mysterious identity, who laid hands on the sick and produced miraculous results.” The last paper in the collection was the
State
, showing Chance’s picture on the front page as the identity of this mystery man.

Pop held up that copy and pointed at Chance, an expression of confusion and bewilderment clouding his face. “Tha’s you . . . no, can’t be . . . tha’s you?”

Chance nodded. “That’s me, Pop. The man they wrote about in every article.”

“Can’t be . . .”

Chance nodded again. “Nina was right to believe that God could heal her through the laying on of hands, because divine healing is real. It’s as real as that paper you’re holding.”

“So all of this stuff,” Pop began, thumbing back through the binder. “You tellin’ me all of this stuff is true?”

“It’s all true, Pop. I don’t know why God is using me, but He is. I’ve seen crooked spines instantly straightened out, tumors disappear, blinded eyes opened, and crippled legs made whole again. And if you read that second-to-last article, you’ll see that Lynn Harper was in a car accident and lost her eyesight for seven weeks. She was told she’d never see again. But as you now know, God completely restored her vision.”

“How?”

“I laid hands over her eyes and spoke the Word of God over her. She was instantly healed. This is what I’m trying to tell you, Pop—this stuff is real.”

“B-but Nina . . . it didn’t work for Nina.”

Chance took a deep breath. “I may never know the answers to some questions until I get to heaven. But what I do know is that she’s now in a place where there’s no more pain, and no more suffering. God didn’t heal her while she was still here with us, but He did heal her.”