The Pastor's Wife Wears Biker Boots (22 page)

“What is your heart telling you to do?” Reba placed a hand on my shoulder.

Unwelcome tears spilled out of my eyes and landed on my blouse.

Atticus wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “We’ll take you. C’mon. I have a friend who’s a lawyer in Indianapolis. I’ll tell him your situation, and he’ll help you out. He owes me a favor.”

I looked up into his clear blue eyes. “Lately, you’re always bailing me out, Atticus. I don’t know how to thank you.” I sobbed, and Atticus wrapped his burly tattooed arms around me again and rested his chin on my head.

One of Bernice’s friends, Mrs. Cole, saw me in the biker’s arms and shot up the stairs like a Bernice-seeking missile.

I stopped crying and tried to get my thoughts together. I inched out of Atticus’s bear hug. Tears weren’t going to help things right now. “Reba, can you tell Aaron an emergency has come up, but don’t tell him what it is until after the service?”

Reba winked at me. “You got it, Sugar.”

“And can you keep an eye on Daniel and Timmy for me, too?”

Trace patted my shoulder. “No problem. You just go on and do what you gotta do. We’ll be fine.”

I gave Trace a quick hug. “Aw, Trace, I hate missing your first Sunday. I’m truly sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad to be here. I’ll be back.” He gave me a nod.

Atticus took me under one arm and Opal under the other and ushered us out the door so quickly not a soul noticed us leaving.

I don’t think there’s anything quite as humbling as walking into a police station to claim your child. I felt like a neon sign hung over my head blinking: BAD MOTHER. Where did I go wrong? How did my precious baby end up
here
?

I pictured the little boy who collected worms in his pockets and said his bedtime prayers every night from the time he could talk. Where was the little boy who rejoiced over new additions to his rock collection and chased me with spiders? Oh! How I missed him!

What would I say to him? What would he say to me? How should I act? Should I be angry? Should I not speak to him? Scold him? Wait until we get home and put on a united front with his father?

“Mrs. Donovan?” A female officer spoke to me from behind a glass window.

“Yes?” I felt like someone in a stranger’s movie. This was not me standing here in a police station, scared and helpless.

“Your son will be coming through those doors right over there in just a few minutes. I need you to sign this, and here are his personal effects.”

She handed me an envelope with Patrick’s watch and class ring. I signed the paper and turned toward the doors to see a pale, disheveled young man resembling my son walking toward me.

“Oh, Mom.” He fell into my arms, sobbing. “I’m sorry. Thanky-you for coming to get m-me. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry.”

“Shhhhh.” I stroked his hair. “Shhhhh.”

I held my son in my arms.

All was right with the world.

30

Slam! I jumped as the door swung shut behind Aaron.

“Where is he?” He threw his suit coat on the back of the couch and rolled up his shirt sleeves as if he were getting ready to do a dirty job.

“He’s sleeping. He’s exhausted.” I fussed in the kitchen, rearranging drawers to burn off nervous energy.

“Too bad. Get him up. We’re going to talk. Now.” Aaron parked his hands on his hips.

“Not right now, Aaron,” I whispered, holding back my frustration.

“What do you mean, not right now? After all he put you through this morning?” Aaron pulled his hand through his hair and paced behind the couch in front of the stairs.

“Where’s Timmy and Daniel?” I plunked down my tea towel and walked into the living room.

“They’re with Reba and Trace. They said they’d keep the kids until tonight.”

I nodded. Thank God for friends like Reba and Trace.

Aaron sat on the edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees. “I can’t believe he did this to me. Today. Of all days.”

“What do you mean he did this to you?”

“He knew we had a full church today and that I’d need you there. That kid doesn’t think of anyone but himself. I don’t know where he gets his selfishness. We do things for others all the time. He didn’t learn it from us.” Aaron plopped back on the couch.

“I don’t think fifteen-year-old boys think too much about what their parents are dealing with, Aaron.” I sat on the ottoman in front of him.

“But he’s been raised to focus on others first.” Aaron looked up at the ceiling.

“Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he can’t live up to our expectations, so he figures he’ll not try at all.” I looked down at my hands, remembering how quiet the car ride home from the police station had been. Patrick hadn’t said a word all the way home.

“Oh, please. What expectations? It’s not like he’s mucking stalls at 4:00 AM everyday like I did growing up. All the kid has to do is keep up with the few chores around here, his homework, and going to church. How hard is that? This is your fault, you know.”

“What?” I was sure I heard him wrong. “What did you say?”

“I said this is your fault. He spends more time with you than anybody. This homeschooling thing was a bad idea.”

“Did you just hear what you said, Aaron? Did you hear that?” I turned away and fought back angry tears. I walked into the kitchen and filled the dog’s water bowl. One clank of the bowl against the sink and Goliath came sliding into the kitchen expectantly. I searched for my next words. I walked back into the living room. “Did you hear yourself say that I spend more time with the boys than you do?”

“Well, you do.”

He still didn’t get it. “Whose fault is that? You have as much access to them as I have.”

Aaron stood up from the couch and walked behind it again. “I have a full-time job outside this house, Kirstie. You know I can’t spend as much time with them as you do.”

“First of all, public schooled kids go to prison, too, so homeschooling has nothing to do with it. And secondly, how do you propose that I teach them to be men, Aaron? I don’t have the slightest idea. I’ve never been a man before.”

Aaron stared at me, speechless. Finally, he spoke slowly and deliberately, “I’m extremely busy, and you know it. It’s been hard work getting this little church up and running and putting out all the little fires everywhere.”

“Maybe the fires wouldn’t keep restarting if you didn’t tend to them so much.” I couldn’t believe what shot out of my mouth, but I was fighting for the well-being of my son—my family. “In the meantime, we need you
here
, Aaron. We are your first priority.”

“Don’t tell me what my priorities are. I know them quite well.” He dropped his head into his hands.

I sat next to him on the couch with my arm around his shoulder. “Please cancel church tonight. Spend time alone with Patrick. Find out what’s going on with him. Please. We’re going to lose him if you don’t step up.”

Aaron groaned. “Norman will be furious. We never cancel church…”

“Can you find someone to do the service?” I was begging.

“I think so. Yes, I know someone I can call.”

Aaron never shared his pulpit. At least not freely. I was afraid if I said more he’d change his mind.

“I’m sorry.” He gathered my hands and kissed them. “I’m overwhelmed. I know God gives you wisdom sometimes when I don’t have it. Thank you for loving me enough to point out when I need to grow, dear little helpmate.”

“I love you, Aaron.” I held him close. “I know your special touch in Patrick’s life is what he needs right now. He’s struggling to figure out who he is and needs you more now than when he was a little boy. And I need so much for you to lead our home and teach our boys to be men.”

Aaron kissed me on the cheek and looked into my eyes. “I’ll take him fishing tonight.”

“You hate to fish.” I smiled.

“I know, but Patrick loves it.” Aaron sighed. “It will feel strange playing hooky, but maybe an evening fishing together is the kind of adventure we’ll need.”

“I think it’s a perfect idea. Patrick will get the message that he’s more important than the church.”

We sat in silence and listened to the ticking of the big clock above the fireplace. I got an idea. “You know what? I think I’ll go for a ride by myself in the country while you’re out fishing. I haven’t gotten to take any pictures this summer.”

Aaron grinned. “You and that motorcycle.” He shook his head.

“What?”

“Do you realize what happened in church this morning?”

“No. I wasn’t there, remember?”

“We had twelve commitments to Christ. Twelve. Kirstie, that church hasn’t seen that many conversions in one service in, well, probably ever.” Aaron’s face glowed.

“Tell me what happened.”

“In the middle of my preaching, one of the guys stood up. ‘Preacher,’ he says, ‘I’ve heard enough and seen enough. I’m ready to find out how to be like y’all.’”

“Oh, Aaron, I would have loved to have been there to see that.”

“It was amazing. I don’t think he’d been to church before. He didn’t know there’d be a call to salvation at the end of the service. He just stood right up where he was when he’d made up his mind.”

“What did you preach about?”

“Mary’s alabaster box.”

I nodded. One of my favorite stories. “What happened then?”

“Well, I had him come up to the front so I could pray with him and when I looked up from my prayer, there were ten other people standing there wanting the same thing.”

“But you said there were twelve conversions.”

Aaron grinned. “At the end of the service, when I offered an invitation to accept Christ, there was one more.”

“Who?”

“Trace.”

My eyes stung. More tears. I’d cried this morning out of despair. I cried now for joy. Reba’s Trace had accepted Christ. No wonder the devil was working so hard.

We sat in silence again just staring ahead and holding hands. Finally I spoke, “Oh, Aaron. Isn’t God funny?”

He knew exactly what I meant. “He sure is. I mean, look at you. One little lady in the middle of nowhere gets a notion to ride a motorcycle, and here we are.”

I looked up at Aaron. “It’s never about us, is it?”

“No, honey. It never is.”

31

I was glad to ride. To let my bike take me far, far away from the issues at home, at church, and in my head and heart. I felt as if my cares sat in prickly baskets on my shoulders. Breathing took effort, and not because the humid August air was stifling. Stress sat on my chest like a weighty chartreuse elephant. I needed the wind and miles to blow the burdens away and transport me to a place of tranquil, crystal-clear thinking.

I rolled Heaven’s throttle for a while before I took off out of the driveway. “Rock and roll, girl. We’re going for a long ride, just you and me. I hope you’re up for it.”

I didn’t know where I was headed. It didn’t matter. I needed to go away, leave Eel Falls and see something new. It could be anywhere as long as it wasn’t here.

Before long, I was completely immersed in the sheer joy of my bike feasting on mile after glorious mile of wide open road. The deep, guttural roar of the engine and assault of wind on my face gradually wore away the issues weighing me down. I relaxed under the soothing force of the bike’s speed and its thick, throaty song. It calmed me to hear the syncopated pops and rest in its bold, rich song. It was the ultimate escape. Like climbing into an overstuffed, comfortable chair. I allowed the organic sensation of the motor’s revelry to lull me into whole-hog heavenly rest. It was an ironic peace—a cacophony of machine, road, and human spirit—harmonious and suspended in time. It shouldn’t have felt peaceful with all the noise, but it was utterly tranquil.

The day cooled off, and I enjoyed the wind on my skin. My eyes watered a little, but I wasn’t sure if it was from tears or wisps of air slipping underneath my sunglasses. I could feel a small unintended smile on my face. If only I could always feel this serene. If only people could know how really good this felt. They’d want to ride, too, and never stop. No wonder Goliath liked sticking his head out the window when he rode in the van.

After fifty miles or so, I came to a little town called Pinkerton. I slowed my bike to twenty miles per hour and rode slowly past a rickety old church building on a main street. Its stained glass window glowed in the dusk, and its front doors were opened wide. Light from the sanctuary spilled out onto the tree-lined street. From my bike, I could see inside where ceiling fans rotated in rhythmic circles, cooling congregants in the sticky late summer’s heat. As I passed by, teenagers turned in their pews to look at me.

I felt a small pang of guilt realizing I’d skipped church tonight. How many years had it been since I hadn’t been in a house of worship on a Sunday night? I couldn’t remember. Going to church was as much a part of me as the freckles on my face.

But I needed to be as far away from church folks as I could get right now. I required a clear head. I needed to sort out what was me, and what part of me was only someone constantly trying to live up to everyone else’s expectations. And yet, something about that little church drew me. I almost wanted to stop and slip inside, but I didn’t. I knew I needed to get away just as Jesus did from the multitude to get a fresh perspective and refresh my mind.

A block away across the street was a hot dog vendor. I was surprised to feel hungry. I hadn’t been able to eat since picking up Patrick from jail. The street was virtually empty. A young couple completely lost in one another snuggled on a park bench in front of the post office next to the church. I parked my bike a few yards past them and walked across the street to the vendor to get a chili dog.

I sat on the curb and took a bite. I couldn’t taste it. I was too numb. Too many questions rolled around in my mind like a three-wheeled Harley on a bumpy country road. Was I really a Christian or just faking it? Would I go to church if my husband wasn’t the pastor? What if I was just a hypocrite and didn’t really like church people? What if people didn’t like me?

I hated myself for caring what anyone thought of me as a parent. I didn’t want to care that people pointed at me and judged me for having a son who experimented with alcohol and landed himself in jail. I didn’t want to see the criticism in people’s eyes when they saw Patrick’s tattoo and then looked at me.