Embrace Me (35 page)

“You got a middle-of-the-night time?”

“Vigils, like you came in on the other night.”

“What am I supposed to pray?”

“It's all written out. Scriptures. Responses and all. You don't even have to voice it out loud, Val, unless you want to. Some people chant them.”

She barks out a laugh.

Rick snaps his head up. “What?! Val, you sing better than anybody I've ever heard.”

“Yes. She's amazing.” You're amazing, Daisy. All on your own.

“Okay, okay. I'll do it. But I'm not promising I'll sing. What time do I need to get there?”

“Just sometime in the middle of the night. After one a.m. would be fine.”

Lord, I hope she sings those prayers.

We've tried to pare down to the bare necessities at Shalom. Justin would like to be a Luddite, but there's no way I'm taking cold showers and we've got to cook our food somehow. I told him, “Justin, come on, brother. We'll be spending so much time worrying about how little we're taking for ourselves, we'll have nothing left over for the people we're here to serve.”

In this place it's a balance. Because once your eyes are opened to justice and mercy, you can't go back. You can't ever look at a pair of sneakers the same way because you know tiny fingers might have stitched them together that should have been playing cat's cradle or catch. You can't eat an apple without thinking about migrant workers and illegal aliens and knowing how much Jesus loves them. And phrases like, “Well at least they have jobs” no longer are an option, because you've met these “lucky” working people and they are enslaved. It wears on the gray matter at times, let me tell you.

We've got to survive and keep our minds free enough to do God's work without walking over the poor to do it. So we grow a lot of our food in a garden in the back and try to buy from the farmers outside of town. There're some great families out that way and sometimes they give us extra to pass out to the neighborhood.

But we're no strangers to the IGA. First time I walked in there looking like this, Crystal, the manager, looked ready to throw me out. Crystal's got the biggest smile now, though. And she'll say, “Now I'm an old Southern Baptist, Gus, but you all got my vote with what you're doing down there.” This year we're having an Easter feast for the folks on the street, and Crystal and her husband are providing the hams. Mildred's making up pans of mac 'n cheese and peach cobbler. Val's making broccoli casserole and corn bread—she just doesn't know it yet. She's great at institutional cooking, and why that is, I have no idea. But like anybody serving the poor, we're always ready to take advantage of whatever talents people have to offer. Choosy we are not.

I think that's when trouble starts, when people get picky about other folks' offerings to the Lord. I know that firsthand. I try my best to steer clear of that sort of attitude these days.

Justin meets me in the kitchen the next morning after Matins, bike helmet under his arm. “Gus, you'll never guess what I heard about. About a mile past Mildred LaRue's place on Route 91 there's a, well, almost a Hooverville back down off of Jonathan's Creek.”

“In this cold?”

He nods. “I don't know much about it, or even who these people are, but I was thinking of heading over this afternoon. Want to come?”

“Sure thing.”

The phone rings. We have no cell phones, just this old black clunker phone we bought at the Salvation Army. The mouthpiece stinks no matter how much we scrub it. I pick it up. “Shalom House.”

“Drew.”

Not now. “Hi, Dad.”

“I was just calling to see how you're doing. How the church is going.”

I never answer his questions anymore. He doesn't want to really hear the truth. “How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad.”

“Are you in treatment yet?”

“It's inoperable. But slow growing. Or could be. Maybe not. Hard to say.”

“I'm sorry.”

Why does he want to get his life in order? It's typically selfish. He'll die feeling good about himself, and I'll still be ravaged by his newfound presence in my life.

Yeah, Lord, I know, I know.

“Yes, well, just wanted to call and give you the update. I'll be officially retiring next week.”

“No kidding? Uh, Dad. How long do they give you?”

“Six months if I'm lucky.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, I've made a run of it.”

“I'd better go. I've got an appointment.”

“Of course. Good-bye, Drew.”

I hang up. He's dying. Now do I just forget everything that happened? Everything he did to my mother and me? To who knows how many other people who trusted him?

Well, in my defense, I never trusted him. Not even once.

SIXTEEN

VALENTINE: 2009

T
wo weeks into Lent and here I sit in the middle of the night, praying out of a prayer book, several candles flickering on the coffee table. I pray the final prayer of the evening, the concluding prayers of the church, humming the Amen.

Two a.m.

As I lean forward to blow out the candles, an older woman pads out from the women's bunkroom just off the kitchen. Her red hair spills down her back. “Hello, Valentine.”

Augustine said his mother was coming for a brief visit. I quickly slide up my scarf and she says nothing. “Hi. You must be Monica.”

“Yes. I'm just here for a few days.”

“Couldn't sleep?”

“Some nights it's hard. Do you have nights like those?”

I join her as she walks into the kitchen. “Frequently.”

“Augustine figured that. He said that was the inspiration for your taking on the Vigils.”

I nod. “I figured, why not? It's not like I'm doing anything productive in my own room. Just watching movies or reading comic books. I make jewelry too.”

“A creative type. I love creative types. Would you like a nice, hot cup of tea?” She grabs the kettle off the stove. “It's colder tonight than it should be.”

“I should go.”

“Why? Are you tired?”

Okay, so you know those people with laser beams inside their gazes? But they're not mean laser beams, they're just frank. Monica's that type of person, exactly the opposite of Augustine, who has all that sweet Jesusy candlelight coming out of his eyes. Monica probably clears the temple while her son heals the blind and feeds the multitudes. “No, not really. I'm just uncomfortable.”

She chuckles. “You know, Valentine, the truth becomes you beautifully.”

“Then I guess I'll have that tea.”

She fixes it with loads of honey and milk, not asking me how I prefer it, which is with just a little sugar, but okay fine.

“Let's sit back down.”

“Why can't you sleep?” I settle back on the couch.

She curls her feet beneath her. Wow, she's a beautiful woman. “Augustine's father's dying and, well, he's trying to get in good with his son before the Grim Reaper comes along.”

Her words, frayed and threadbare, are stitched together by weariness.

“Augustine's said you all are divorced.”

“Not divorced. Just estranged. Did he say divorced? Really?”

“Maybe not. Maybe he just said you all aren't together anymore and I assumed.”

“Well, it would be a good assumption.”

“Do you feel bad that he's dying?”

“That's the problem. I don't feel as bad as I should and it's making me realize some things about myself I'd rather not think about. I'm hard-hearted regarding this man, and it's unbecoming to someone who claims to love the Lord.”

Well, at least she's as hard on herself as she is on others. Hard-hearted. That's what I am. I deserve to feel that way, sure. It's understandable. But I'm tired of it.

“These vigil prayers have been the best thing I've done in a long time,” I say. “I'm a hard-hearted woman, Monica. This isn't some huge revelation on my part. I've known this for years and have built an identity in it. I'm disfigured, but not lonely. My problem is my heart. But these prayers are showing me I'm capable of forgiveness.”

“Who do you have to forgive?”

“Can I not talk about it?”

“Of course. Have you done the forgiving yet?”

“No. But at least I'm thinking about it.”

She smiles. “I'm glad the prayers are working for you.”

“I'm sure the Laundromat would be glad for you to fill in a prayer slot or two while you're here. Good heavens, I'm recruiting for the place. This is ridiculous.”

“My son has that way about him. For good or for ill.”

“Monica, how did Augustine come to start a place like this anyway? It's so odd!”

“Isn't that the truth? Well, I have a friend in Baltimore who runs a mission downtown. Sister Jerusha. And we went up there after . . . well, that would take too long to give you the backstory. Suffice it to say, we stayed in Baltimore for a few months and while we were there, Augustine found out about a community like this in Philadelphia. I went back to Kentucky, back to my tattoo parlor, and he went north. Lived there as a novice for a couple of years in this deserted, boarded up church in one of the worst sections of the city. Served the people, saw a lot of heartache and pain. Learned to pray. Learned to forget about himself. Learned to help kids with their homework.”

“Makes sense.”

“It changed him. And those folk there didn't let him get away with his predilection to wallow in his miseries.”

“Augustine wallowing in his miseries? I can't picture that.”

“Picture it. After he found me—another long story—he was in horrible shape. Holding God at arm's length, obsessing over a woman he'd wronged—”

“I knew it!” I snapped my fingers.

“What?”

“He alluded to doing something so bad he needed to take the vow of celibacy. It makes sense.”

“Well, it's a little more multidimensional than you're guessing at, but suffice it to say, he used a woman terribly and couldn't forgive himself.”

“Did she forgive him?”

“He hasn't seen her since.”

“Probably better that way. She probably needed to get on with her life.”

“Perhaps.”

“I mean, if the person who did this”—I point to my face—“to me, suddenly showed up asking for forgiveness, I'd know he was doing it because he wanted to feel better himself. He's just that kind of person. Maybe like your non-husband.”

“Maybe he's changed over the years. But even so, you've every right to be angry.”

“But I'm getting a little sick of feeling this way.”

“I know what you mean.” She sighs. “I'm going to have to really forgive Augustine's father. I mean I try. Every day I try. And I do it over and over again. But the feelings just come back.”

“Sometimes it takes time. I mean I guess so, right?”

“Thirty years?”

“Good point.”

“Don't do what I've done. For your own sake. It's very tiring. Has he asked forgiveness yet?”

“No. But then neither did the people Jesus forgave as He was dying. That's right, isn't it?”

She shakes her head and looks up at the ceiling. “It's the hard truth of it, unfortunately.”

I haul myself back home a little while later and point my finger at the apostle John.

I'm praying every night, for heaven's sake, and God wants me to forgive Drew Parrish before he even asks?
That's just crazy.

Besides, Drew Parrish is gone. I'm not going to waste my time trying to find that bozo.