Prophet (45 page)

Carl turned toward the room, took a moment to accept the idea,
and then worked his way past the table saw and drill press, along the workbench and past the hanging tools, until he was just behind his father. He looked one more time at Mom Barrett, but all she did was point to the workbench. “You’ll find more rags in that third drawer.”

“What about . . . paint thinner or something?”

“Your father has a can of turpentine. I’m sure he’ll be happy to share it with you.”

And then she closed the door on them.

Carl looked down at his father’s back. John Barrett had changed into some old clothes, probably Grandpa’s ragged jeans, an old blue shirt already stained with house paint, and a scuffed pair of work boots. He didn’t look one bit like a news anchor. And he still kept working, not saying a word.

Carl found another rag and got to his knees on the floor, not too close to his father. He started scrubbing out a long streak of yellow paint he’d thrown across the floor, but finally realized he’d need some solvent.

He looked toward his father. John Barrett’s eyes were watery, and his face was pink. He’d been crying. Maybe he still was.

“Can I have some of your turpentine?”

His father handed him the can, and their eyes met for a moment.

John Barrett’s eyes were looking at him, really looking at him. There was no machine, no camera, between those eyes and Carl; no script, no cue cards, no teleprompter. Carl’s eyes were locked on his father’s, and he couldn’t break his gaze until his father looked back at the floor.

Then Carl realized he was staring and tried to break his stare into quick glances as he poured some turpentine on his rag. There was something different about his father’s face. It was hard to pin down what it was, but . . . it looked softer. Vulnerable. Warm. Human. It was even sweating a bit. Maybe he’d seen this face before, that night in his father’s apartment, that time when he heard his father say, “I’m just like Dad.”
I wonder what the voice would sound like?

“You know,” Carl ventured, “you don’t have to help me. I’m the one who made the mess.”

“I owe it to you, Carl.” The voice was soft, broken. John Barrett borrowed back the can of turpentine, wetted his rag, and continued
scrubbing. “I made the mess too. This is our mess. We’ve been working up to this for years.”

Carl couldn’t argue with that, so he just kept scrubbing. The yellow paint came up easily enough. Maybe this wouldn’t be an insurmountable task after all.

He saw a small circle of water on the floor directly under his father’s face. Then another.

“Hey . . . you okay?” His father set down his rag, sat on the floor, and pulled out another rag, this one for his eyes and nose. “Oh . . . I guess I’m okay.”

“You been hearing from God again?”

That brought a new flood of tears to John’s eyes. He couldn’t speak; he could only nod yes.

Carl digested that for a moment, then said, “Then pass the turpentine.” John passed it to him and he set to work again, this time on a streak of blue. “We’ll get the oil-based stuff up first. The watercolors will come off with soap and water, so they can wait ’til morning.”

John put his nose rag back in his pocket and returned to work. “Is this one oil-based?”

“Yeah. All the yellows are oil, all the blues, and all the blacks. Don’t worry about the reds—we can mop those up.”

They scrubbed for a while without saying a word, and then John said, “Like eating an elephant, right?”

“Yeah,” said Carl, familiar with that little saying, “one bite at a time.”

They finished the job at about 1 in the morning and then tiptoed into the house to take showers and turn in for the night. Carl went to bed in John’s old room, while John got some blankets and slept on the couch. He’d be going back to his apartment soon enough, but for now, maybe for a few days, he wanted to be right here, in this house, close to his family.

SATURDAY MORNING LESLIE
Albright woke up almost unemployed. Ben wouldn’t accept her resignation yesterday, but told her to take the weekend to think about it. He must have noticed that she was angry, indignant, beside herself, ready to spit, and probably unable to
make a cool and rational decision she would not later regret.

Well, as Leslie sat in her little studio apartment sipping her morning coffee and facing a brand-new day, she was able to conclude that Ben had done the wise thing. A good night’s sleep and a new day could bring a fresh perspective on things. Maybe this job was worth another chance, another try. This was, after all, her chosen profession, the field she’d schooled and prepared for, and it was a worthy profession, all things considered. Besides that, if she quit now, she would never be able to find Dr. Denning, get a bona fide copy of that autopsy report, and shove it up Tina Lewis’s nose. That alone was going to make staying at NewsSix worth any amount of pain.

So, having settled at least that much, she pressed on to the next item on the day’s agenda: sliding her half-eaten toast aside, pushing her coffee cup forward, and making space for the phone book. Okay, the Request for Medical Records idea didn’t work, thanks to good ol’ Tina, and if the hospital wasn’t going to give out Denning’s number, fine. But if Dr. Denning still lived anywhere in the area she was going to find him. Her first course of action was the most obvious: find his home number and just call him. She flipped through the phone book until she found some Dennings. Albert Denning, David Denning . . . all right, here he was, Mark Denning, M.D.

She set the phone right next to the table and dialed the number.

The phone rang a few times, and then an answering machine cut in: “Hello, you’ve reached the Denning residence. We’re unable to come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number and your message, we’ll get back to you as soon as we can . . .”

After the beep she left a message: “Hello, this is Leslie Albright. I’m a friend of Max and Deanne Brewer and also of John Barrett Jr. At any rate, this is regarding the autopsy you performed on Annie Brewer back in May of this year . . .”

She left her number, at home and at work. Okay. Done. Now, what else? Well, if she could check a crisscross directory she might find his address and perhaps leave a note on his front door. She began to seriously consider that. She was playing hardball now.

JOHN CAREFULLY LIFTED
the canvas cover aside, exposing a pile of
planks, ribs, and parts he could no longer identify for certain. “Hoo boy, it has been a while.”

As they stood in Dad’s shop, eyeing that forgotten project, Carl found himself just watching, detached, not saying a word, not diving into the idea with any premature enthusiasm. Before yesterday he would have been thrilled at the thought of finishing this rowboat with his father, but that was before yesterday’s tumble from hope. The fall had been long and hard—and the crash at the bottom more than painful. He could still feel the bruises deep in his soul, and healing was going to take time if it happened at all. Sure, he’d seen tears last night, and he even thought he saw his father, his real father, working alongside him. But what was this now? His father’s idea of “quality time”? A kiss to make it better? Carl couldn’t help feeling a bit testy. His father was doing the right thing years too late.

“Grandma says you and Grandpa quit working on it when you left for college.”

“That’s right.” John began picking through the pile, trying to sort it out and remember what was what. “This was our project, the one we were going to do together. I guess that’s why Dad never finished it by himself. He was waiting for me to come back.”

“Guess you came back too late.”

Carl was right—John knew that. But the kid was being a little blunt, and John didn’t exactly welcome the pain. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right, Carl. That’s how it is. But I’m here now, and so are you, and we’ve got some choices to make.”

Carl just looked at the wood pieces. That’s what they were—confused, scattered pieces.

“Right?” John prompted.

Carl was ready to walk out again, but he knew that would be cowardly. No, he was going to test this thing. Then he’d know for sure. “I know I don’t want to build any stupid boat.”

“I was thinking we could finish what Dad and I started.” Then John was careful to add, “And I thought we could talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“Anything you want.”

Carl tried to lock onto John’s eyes, and John let him.

This guy was really leaving himself wide open—if he meant it.
“Anything, huh?”

“Hey, it isn’t going to be fun, but what are the alternatives? The way I see it, we can either deal with things the way they are and start putting the pieces together from here, or just walk away from each other, get out of each other’s lives, and keep the mistakes the way they are.”

Test him, Carl. Throw him a punch and see what he does.

“Why did you and Mom split up?”

John grimaced. “Oh boy . . .”

Carl threw up his hands. “Yeah, right, we could talk about anything!” He started to walk out.

“Well, give me a second to think, will you?”

Carl stopped as his father got riled.

“You start right out tearing into the big wounds, the really big ones, and you expect me to have some news and commentary all prepared for you or something? You think the reasons are simple?”

Carl thought for only a moment and then nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Oh, give me a break!”

“She was selfish and you were selfish; all you could think about was your career, and all she could think about was not letting you—or any man—walk on her.”

John stopped short and stared at his son. “Then why’d you even ask?”

“Are those the reasons?”

“Yeah, those are the reasons.”

“Okay.”

“I take it you’ve had some long talks with your mother.”

“Her name’s Ruth.”

“Okay . . . Ruth.”

“You must not feel too friendly toward her.”

Now John was mad. He let a curse slip out.

“What did you say?”

“I said . . .” John wilted a bit. “I’m sorry . . .” But then he just got angry again. “And why am I apologizing to you? Have you heard your own mouth lately?”

“Hey, I’m still a sinner! I haven’t been talking to God like you
have!”

John was about to throw a counter-remark, but got as far as drawing the breath when he held it, let it out as an amused sigh, and then just smiled, shaking his head, looking down, thinking for a moment. Then he looked up. “Okay, Carl. You want to communicate? You want to be honest? Tell me something: When you were throwing all that paint around last night, who were you thinking of?”

Carl smiled. Touché. “Me.”

“So you weren’t thinking of Grandma or Grandpa and their nice little shop here and the sanctity of their property and how a guest in someone’s home should conduct himself?”

“No . . . I was mad.” Before John could comment, he added, “But like I said, I’m a sinner. I do things like that.”

John looked around the room, sharing an incredulous expression with the shop tools. “So . . . hey, give another sinner a little slack, huh?” Carl didn’t have a comeback ready, so John kept going. “I’m a sinner. Sure . . . I’m a sinner, and I do sinful things. When you meet God, that’s the first thing you have to face up to or you aren’t being honest.” John looked toward the rafters. “You can’t be like that painting up there. Good job, by the way.”

Carl looked up at the anchorman in the rafters, still cool, collected, immaculate, professional. “I hate that painting.”

“Well, sure, and we both know why. So just try to get God to believe that image up there. Forget it! God sees right through it. He knows who you really are, so you may as well come out and be honest about yourself.”

Carl looked at the painting and then at his father and then returned to unfinished business. “So . . . how do you feel about Ruth?”

“I feel . . . Initially I feel like I don’t want to talk about her.”

“Well . . . she doesn’t talk about you much either. But do you hate her?”

“No, not at all.”

“Do you still love her?”

John had to probe his thoughts, his feelings. “Back then I had no question that I loved her. But looking back from here I can say I loved myself more. And now . . . now I’m not sure how I should feel about her. If love is only a matter of feeling, that’s gone completely. If love
means commitment, we never had that in the first place.”