Pages of Promise (25 page)
The end came just as the sun rose and threw its beams across the bed. Amos turned, looked at the sun for a moment, then turned back to Rose, this woman he loved with all of his heart. “Sunrise,” he said, his voice clear, and then he looked up and said, “Kiss me, Rosie.”
Rose leaned over and kissed his lips, and when she lifted her head, she saw that his eyes were closed. His chest moved so slightly that she barely sensed it. She did not know when he actually went away, it was so easy. She leaned over again, kissed him, and whispered, “Good-bye, Husband—I’ll see you very soon.”
Lenora, Christie, and Mario made most of the arrangements, trying to keep things simple. But the public funeral in Chicago for Amos was big and busy and crowded. The huge church was full, for Amos had made many friends—and enemies—in his long life in that city. The seats were filled with judges, lawyers, politicians, and most of all with journalists. Editors, reporters, and anyone who cared about the profession of journalism were there.
Rose came in with the family after the building was filled. As she sat down, she turned to Jerry and whispered, “This would have amused your father. I know what he would have done.”
Putting his arm around her, Jerry whispered, “What’s that, Mother?”
“He would have made a speech telling them to give the best they have to their professions and to their families and encouraging them to do more, to be more honorable.”
“I think you’re right. He would have done a good job, too.”
The funeral was long. There were many tributes, but finally it was all over. The family felt drained and dazed. Bonnie came and kissed her mother-in-law and said, “I know you’re glad that’s over, but it had to be. People wanted to show how they felt about Dad.”
“Yes, and now we can take him home.”
The family funeral was held in the small church only a couple of miles from Amos’s birthplace. Although Amos had been away from the Ozarks since he was a young man, still the home place had been maintained, and Amos and Rose had come back many times. The church was filled with Stu-arts and with a few farm families who were close to them. Reverend Crabtree knew there had been a fine and fancy funeral in Chicago, but Rose had told him plainly, “Amos would have wanted you to conduct the service as you see fit. He always had confidence in you, Brother Crabtree.”
He led in singing several of Amos’s favorite hymns. Then he stood behind the pulpit and looked over the congregation and said, “It is my privilege to make a few remarks about our brother Amos Stuart. I feel that there are others here—Owen Stuart, and now Richard Stuart, both ministers of the gospel—who could do a much better job, and I asked them to do so. They both declined, and I will say it was the first time I ever knew of Owen refusing a chance to have his say.”
The minister smiled at the murmur of agreement that went over the congregation. Crabtree went on to make his remarks, which were brief and to the point. “He did better than that fellow with the doctor degree, I think,” Gavin whispered.
“I think that minister had more degrees than he had temperature,” Pete answered, grinning.
Crabtree said, “The Stuarts are a resolute family, and as some of you may know, it is their custom to come back to the hills every Christmas. They made this vow many years ago when they were young, and very few Christmases have passed when this family celebration has not occurred.” Crab-tree turned and smiled at Owen and said, “I believe you want to say a word about this, Owen.”
Owen stood and turned to face the congregation. He was worn and tired from his years of bare-handed evangelism and with grief at his brother’s death, but there was a light in his eyes as he said, “We have not lost our brother. When you lose something, . . .” he said in a ringing voice that carried without effort through the building. “When you lose something,” he repeated, “you don’t know where it is.” And then he smiled, and his eyes were filled with joy. “But we know where Amos is. He’s not lost, he’s just gone ahead as he always did with his family. We will have a reunion with him someday. And we’ll have our reunion here a few days early this year. The Delight Hotel is already filled with the smells of cooking. Soon there’ll be singing and happiness as we gather around and rejoice in our family. We invite all of you dear friends to come and join us after the burial this afternoon,” he said. Then he paused and laid his hand on Rose’s shoulder, adding gently, “We will miss him, but we will see him soon!”
T
he cold January wind struck Peter Stuart in the face as he stepped outside his car and turned to face the prison. He had come here every month, and it never got easier. When he crossed to the entrance and entered, he was greeted by name by a tall guard who smiled and said, “How are you, Mr.
Stuart?”
“Fine, Tony. How’s that little one of yours?”
“Growin’ like a weed. You go right on over. I reckon your son will be glad to have a visit from you.”
As Peter traveled the familiar path through the labyrinth of the prison and came to the visitors’ room, he thought of what the guard had said and found it bitter as the memories of his previous visits. He had come as often as he was allowed, neglecting other things in order to show his concern for Stephen.
As he entered the familiar waiting room, with the same dog-eared magazines, the same green plastic chairs, a sense of despondency came over him.
If there was only something to
fight, something I could do,
he thought.
But what can you do besides
send small gifts and try to encourage a little?
The door opened, and Stephen walked in. His face was still, without a flicker of response in his eyes, and he made no attempt to smile. “Hello, Dad,” he said. Moving over to the coffeepot, he poured a cup, then turned and asked, “Would you like one?”
“That might be pretty good. It’s cold outside.”
“I suppose it is.” There was a faint mockery in Stephen’s tone. Peter had noticed that this was becoming more and more his attitude. A bitterness had been born in his son in this place. It had hardened him and taken away his sensitivities. As Pete studied Stephen, who came over and sat down, pushing one of the Styrofoam cups toward him, a moment’s silence fell between the two.
“Not much to talk about, is there, Dad?”
Forcing himself to manifest a cheerfulness that he did not feel, Peter spoke about Amos’s funeral and how different family members were coping.
“How’s Mom?”
“Pretty well. She misses you, of course. She said she’ll come next month. She can hardly bear to see this place and you in it, and especially in the winter, she says.”
For just a moment a faint light that could have been pleasure showed in Stephen’s eyes, but then he blinked and turned those eyes downward again. “I’d tell you about what’s going on in here, but it would bore you to tears,” he said.
Pete leaned toward him. “Is it so bad, Son?”
“Bad enough, but look at it this way. I’ve only got eight more years to go.”
“Not that long,” Peter protested. “With time off for good behavior—”
“You don’t know how hard it is. Nobody does.” A shadow seemed to fall over Stephen’s face, hooding his eyes. “Yesterday I left a soap wrapper on the window sill. Just forgot to throw it away. Then the guard came along and gave me a demerit. That adds three months to my sentence.” His lips twisted into a bitter smile and he said, “I never thought I’d see the day that I’d be licked by a soap wrapper.”
Peter wanted to reach over and touch his son in some way, but he had learned that Stephen was quick to resent any overt signs of sympathy.
The visit limped along, and when the time was up, Peter rose and went over, still unable to reach out. “Anything you need—books, cash?”
“No. Nothing. You don’t have to come back so often, Dad. I know it’s hard on you.”
“Nonsense. I’ll be coming every time I get a chance.” He hesitated, never knowing how to end these meetings. There was a temptation simply to turn and walk away, but he did his best to smile, saying, “Don’t give up, Son. God knows what we’re going through, and he’ll see us through it.”
When God was mentioned, Stephen’s face immediately turned hard. He did not respond except to say, “Good-bye, Dad. Tell Mom hello.”
As Peter left the prison, the gloom in his spirit thickened. He walked with his head down, got into the car, and then put his head on the steering wheel and wept. He and Leslie had been worried about Stephen’s materialism, his leaving God out of his life, but now it was so much worse. Peter had prayed until he knew no more words to say. He had said them all a hundred times, but still, he believed God, and as he calmed down and was ready to turn the key, he breathed up one prayer. “God, bring my son to know you; then all will be well.”
Jerry and Bonnie returned to Chicago to help Rose with Amos’s business affairs. Stephanie went too, wanting to spend a few days with them before returning to work in London. Jake stayed away deliberately, not wanting to intrude on the family’s grief. He had been assigned to take Amos’s duties at the
Examiner,
at least temporarily. He took Stephanie out to dinner shortly before she was to leave. They went to a quiet Chinese restaurant under the el.
“I see Daley won the election for mayor,” said Stephanie.
“Yes, at least maybe he’ll provide more unity in the city’s politics.”
Their conversation continued in this desultory manner for a while. Then Jake raised a more personal matter.
“Do you realize it’s been three years since you turned me down?”
“Yes, Jake, I know.”
“I’m still in love with you.”
“Yes, I know that, too.”
He waited for her to continue, but when she didn’t, he said, “Do you still love me?”
“I don’t believe I ever said I loved you.”
“Well, you didn’t deny it, either.” When she just stared at him, expressionless, he felt a little off balance. But he proceeded to take a small velvet-covered box out of his pocket and put it on the table. “I know this isn’t the time, so soon after Amos’s death, but with you leaving again—I wanted to do this in person rather than by mail or telephone. Stephanie—”
She reached across the small table and put her finger over his lips to interrupt him. “Jake, I gave you two reasons why I wouldn’t marry you. One is gone now, but the other is not. I still want to be an overseas correspondent. Matter of fact, when I return to London, it will only be for a couple of weeks. Then I’m going to Tangier.”
“I haven’t forgotten that second reason,” he said, taking her hand. “But I’ve had a lot of time to think about that one, too. To be perfectly honest, I would like a so-called normal life, with the little woman at home every night waiting for me. And I would like to have kids, I think. But I’ve had the bad luck to fall madly, head-over-heels, lock, stock, and barrel in love with another woman—you. And I can’t seem to fall out of love with you. So, will I be unhappy married to you? Maybe. But I’m miserable without you now, so unhappy is a step up.”
She laughed and blotted her tears away with the back of her hand, then said, “Jake, I just don’t see how we can work it out.”
“Stephanie, will you marry me? Then we’ll work out the details of how we’re going to manage it.”
“Put the ring away. I’ll have to think about it. It seems terribly unfair to you—you don’t get much out of it that you want. I can’t believe you’ll be content to live that way for long.”
“Well, in the Bible it says that a husband should love his wife like Christ loved the church—that means sacrificing himself for her. Will you allow me, Stephanie Stuart, to do that for you?”
“Oh, so now you’re quoting Scripture to me?” She paused. “I’ll think about it.”
Three months later, in a tiny Christian chapel outside Tangier, Morocco, Stephanie Stuart and Jake Taylor were married. Jake held Stephanie’s warm, strong hand in his and from time to time looked into her eyes, repeating the ancient words, “Love . . . honor . . . with this ring . . . as long as we both shall live.” He knew this living, vibrant, lovely woman beside him was more than all the words.
When the missionary performing the ceremony said, “You may kiss the bride,” Jake turned to face her, lifted the short veil, and kissed her firmly and with ardor. As they left the chapel, Stephanie squeezed his arm and said, “Did you mean all of what you just said, Jake?”
“I meant every word of it. It just wasn’t strong enough.”
Jerry and Bonnie stood together reading the letter, their arms around one another. “Wasn’t it only yesterday,” Jerry whispered, looking at the wedding picture enclosed, “that we brought her home in that pink receiving blanket? And only the day before that that you and I were that young and in love?”
“I was never as lovely as Stephanie.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. She got all of her good looks from you.” His brow furrowed, and she knew he was thinking of his little girl leaving the nest for good, but neither of them said a word about it. Instead Bonnie pulled at Jerry’s arm and said, “Come on. Let’s go wire them our congratulations.”
L
awrence Sutton had a great deal of patience, but it was practically exhausted by the woman who sat across from him. She pressured him to reveal the address, or at least a clue, to the whereabouts of William Starr. Sutton was a gentlemanly man of English stock and looked like an English actor, with his clipped British mustache and his dark hair turning silver at the temples. He stared at Mona Stuart, who simply would not take no for an answer. He said with exasperation, “I’m very sorry, but I cannot tell you what I do not know! I would like to know more than anyone where William Starr is!”
“Does he have a contract to do another book, Mr. Sutton?”
Sutton’s face dropped. “I played the fool there, Miss Stuart. No one else would touch
Bride of Quietness
until I saw the possibilities and bought it. I should have signed him up for half a dozen books. It was the biggest mistake I ever made in my career.”
