Design on a Crime (20 page)

What my arrest hadn't done, those soft-spoken words did.
For the second time in my life, I was powerless; once again
someone else held my life in their hands.

I had no one to turn to, no one to hold me, no one to tell me
everything would turn out right. I had no illusions.

Someone wanted me to take the fall for what they'd done.
My most basic freedom was being stripped away, just as control
of my body was once stolen from me.

They fingerprinted me. They swapped my skirt and top
for a hideous orange thing. They even took away my Birkenstocks. I tried to pull away from what was happening, but
everything felt like another blow.

Wilmont's small jail, located at the rear of the police station, was little more than a holding pen. After prisoners were
processed, they were sent to the King County facility in Seattle
if they couldn't post bail.

I had no money. I knew what was waiting for me.

Waiting was a hell all its own.

Once they'd labeled me a criminal, I huddled in the corner
of the narrow bunk, the mattress barely more than a thin pad.
I shivered, even though the day was hot. The cell was stuffy
and the air too foul to breathe. The shivers started small, but
as time crawled by, they grew. Soon I shook so hard that the
bunk, bolted to the wall, creaked under me.

My heart pounded painfully. I had no control. I couldn't
handle the misery, the confusion, the tragedy. Hysteria stole
in and shut down my mind.

Some time later, I don't know how long, I heard my name.
A familiar voice called me, but I was too far away. And I
didn't want to go back. It hurt to go where that voice wanted
me to go.

A warm hand touched my cheek, and I jerked away. I
couldn't trust anyone. I had to hold them off ... wrap my
arms around me ...

"Honey, please open your eyes."

Dad! He'd come. Just like the last time. He hadn't left me
alone and devastated. He'd come.

Fear held me in its grip, but Dad's voice, the love in his words,
proved stronger. I found the strength to open my eyes.

He sat at my side, on that crummy slab of wood the police
called a bed. An age-spotted hand covered mine; the other
touched my cheek again.

"Come on, honey. Let's go home."

"Home?" The voice didn't sound like mine, but the burning in my throat told me it was.

"Yes, Haley. We're going home."

"I'm in jail ..."

"But we posted bail. You can come home now."

"Bail?" That meant money, right? "We don't have any..."

Dad's hands covered my fists where I held them tight
around my knees. "It's okay, dear. The congregation insisted
on paying your bail."

My eyes focused better now, but I still didn't understand.
"How?"

"They took up a collection, then asked me to use the congregation emergency fund. They agreed this was the worst
emergency our fellowship would ever face."

"They ... did that ... for me?"

"Yes, Haley. They did."

"But why?"

"Come on, honey. You have to stand up." His steady, gentle
grip helped me rise. At first I felt dizzy. I almost fell. But Dad
didn't let go.

"Why? Why'd they do that?"

He handed me my skirt. "Put this over your head. It's so
long you can use it as a tent to change. I don't think you want
to go back into the search room, do you?"

The memory of hands groping, touching me, brought panic
back.

I hid under my skirt. The hideous orange thing came off.
"Please, Dad. What made them pay for me?"

"Love, honey. That's what led them to do it. The love of
Christ in their hearts."

"Aw, Dad-"

"No, Haley. You asked, and now you have to listen. I know
how you feel about God, but it's my turn to speak. The love of
Christ led them to do what they would have wanted, hoped,
and prayed you would do for them had they been in your
situation."

"The Golden Rule is just a cliche-"

"Absolutely not." I don't remember ever hearing my father
as angry or as stern as he sounded right then. "That is the
truth of the faith, Haley. It comes from God and is fed by his
Word. That love leads to generosity that's otherwise impossible. The love of Jesus leads believers to see God in those
they meet."

I tugged down the skirt. I tried to fight them, but the words I'd learned in Sunday school came back to my lips. I hadn't
gone after them, but they spilled from my lips of their own
accord.

"Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of
mine, you did for me."

Home was more than the place where they had to let you in
no matter what. It really was a safe harbor. At least, it was
for me. When I saw the manse again, I sobbed.

Dad stopped the car but didn't get out. He faced me, his
expression thoughtful. When I didn't-couldn't-speak, he
shook his head. "You've lost all faith, haven't you?"

I shrugged.

"How could you think I'd let you stay in jail? That no one
cared enough to help you? You haven't fallen that low ...
have you?"

"Look, Dad, I know how you feel, but you also have to
understand what I've been through. I don't see the goodness
you say I'll find in people. It just hasn't been there for me. I
can't even see the goodness you call God. The only good in
my life has come from you, Mom, Marge, and Midas."

"That's a very bleak way to look at life."

"It's a realistic one from where I stand. Today should have
shown you that."

'All I saw today was the police make a terrible mistake. People make mistakes all the time. That's why we all have to
acknowledge we're imperfect creatures."

When I said nothing, he went on. "Because of the police
mistake, some good Christian folk showed their love by sharing what they have with us. You're free because of the love
you deny."

I backhanded the tears off my chin. "I'll give you that much.
But you'll have to let me tell you what I also saw in some of
those people you say have so much love to give."

Dad reacted like I had to yesterday's gossip. But he didn't
deny Penny's and Carla's accusations. "Marge had things in
her past she wasn't proud of."

"She didn't warm a pew Sunday after Sunday either. She
didn't go around looking for the church-lady-of-the-century
award like they do. She wasn't a hypocrite."

"Marge wasn't a hypocrite, but she also didn't think she
had any need for God's love and promises. She insisted this
life was probably all there was. But she did qualify her statement. She always said probably."

"There's nothing more than a life that stinks and then you
die, Dad. I haven't seen anything else."

"You haven't lived long enough."

"I've probably lived way too long. And if we don't get
out of this car, my behind might just permanently bond
itself to the vinyl upholstery." I stepped out. "I don't think
I want to live out the rest of that life we're talking about
right here."

He shook his head at my lame try but got out of the car
too. "You might not want to hear it, Haley, but I'm going to
say it every time I feel the Lord's leading." He locked the car door and went toward the porch. We both got there at the
same time.

In the soft yellow glow from the lamp above the door, I
noticed the lines around his eyes. They ran deeper than I remembered. This guilt I accepted. It was my fault Dad's day
had been so hard.

But he wasn't done with me yet. "God loves you," he said,
"and it's by his boundless grace that you're still here. There's a
reason he spared you that other time. He won't let you down
now either. You just have to reach out to him. He's waiting
to take your hand again."

The familiar anger simmered to life, but this time, before
I could take it and use it to my benefit, panic beat it down.
My heart pounded hard and fast against my ribs. My throat
closed down, all dry and scratchy and tight. My eyes burned,
and my lungs couldn't draw air. My hands went cold, like
blocks of ice.

I couldn't speak. I shook. Sweat beaded my forehead, and
nausea made me heave. I lacked the strength to go up the
porch steps.

Then the front door opened. In spite of the haze around me,
Dad and someone else helped me up. Once inside, I blinked.
My eyes began to clear. The man who'd come to our help was
Tom. His face spoke volumes. He blamed himself for what
had happened to me today.

"Oh, Tom ..."

I couldn't go on. They led me to the couch, where Gussie
waited, arms open wide.

"Come here, sweetheart. Let me hold you." Inside the comfort of her hug, I let the floodwaters flow. I don't know how long I cried, but Gussie never let me go. Dad patted my cheeks
dry with an endless supply of tissues and poured the balm
of tender words over my battered soul. Tom's silent presence
helped me recover, especially when he brought me a cup of
water and insisted I drink.

I couldn't deny their love. I also had to accept the mess
I'd become. Not because I'd spent the day in jail and I stank,
but because of my crashing emotions and the memories I
couldn't stuff away.

"There's no easy way to say this," Dad started, "but you
need help, Haley. More than I can give you, much more than
what Tom and Gussie or any friend can offer. It's time for
a trained professional, especially since you're still refusing
God's healing touch."

"But-"

"Your father's right," Gussie said. "You're still fighting a
four-year-old battle, and now you have a new one to fight.
Don't go it alone any longer, sweetheart. There's help to be
had. You just have to accept it."

Although I shook my head, I could hear Marge urging
me to find a counselor, someone who specialized in helping
victims of violence. "You can't just pretend it didn't happen," she'd said more times than I could remember. "Every
time you push it away, you add another pound of trouble to
your load. You have to face the bad, deal with it. Then you
can go on."

Mom had said about the same thing, but she'd also said I
should reach out to God first. She'd echoed Dad again and
again.

I couldn't. I couldn't rake up the details of the attack. I couldn't go through it again. But I also couldn't deny that I
was in trouble. Dad, Tom, and Gussie knew it. So did I.

"I'll take care of it." I couldn't commit to anything. "But
now I'd better get some rest. Whatever happens, I have to be
ready. I won't be any good if I'm still this drained."

They watched me go upstairs. I concentrated on my steps.
I made them steady, kept the shivers down to a shimmer or
two, took deep, even breaths. Midas joined me, his solid bulk
a comfort at my side.

Even though I didn't think I'd sleep, I was out almost before
my head hit the pillow. I slept hard, and while dreams wafted
in and out of my head, none stuck around long enough to
form another nightmare. I just slept.

How come I felt so good the morning after a day that went
so bad?

I couldn't figure it out, but when I opened my eyes, I felt
better than I had since the day of the auction. A sliver of
golden sunshine snuck in through the slit between the curtain
panels on my window. I pulled them back and basked in the
summer gold.

I had so much energy that, for lack of a better thing to do, I
grabbed a dust cloth and a can of furniture spray and attacked
dust bunnies with a vengeance. When every wood surface
gleamed, I ran downstairs for a broom and went to town on
the hardwood floor. As the final piece de resistance, I rolled
up my braided area rug, then unfurled it out the window. I
shook it with all I had.

"Farewell, rabbits of the dust," I emoted. "There ain't no
room for the two of us in this here town."

I laughed at my goofiness, and then couldn't stop from
ripping out a song. "Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what
a beautiful day ..."

After I showered, I checked the clock. It was only ten
o'clock. Wish I could be that productive all the time.

But then, I knew where that energy had come from, and I
didn't want to do any more time in that deep, dark emotional
pit.