The Warning (8 page)

So Buddy told him, in the same unadorned manner as he had used with Molly. Laying it all out, skipping nothing. He even paused a few times, waiting for Alex to give his big booming laugh and cut him short. The laugh was Alex's way of dealing with things he didn't like. The sound, as strong and dominating as he was, left little room for anything else.

But Alex did not laugh. His dark eyes seemed to deepen as he listened. No, listen was not the right word. He
drank
in the words.

When Buddy finished, silence filled the room. Which was extraordinary. Alex seldom permitted silence to linger when the two of them were together. There was too much chance Buddy would start in on all the things Buddy wished his brother would do, like make more of his life and his talents. And return to God.

Alex rose from his chair and walked to the room's only window. He stood with his back to Buddy, his fingers laced behind his back, and stared out at the yard full of cars. “I've got some news of my own.”

There it was, the sudden change of subject, the move to something safer. Buddy was caught by the hope that Alex was not going to help him, then an accompanying twinge of guilt. “What's that?”

“Been wondering when I was going to tell you.”

“Tell me what, Alex?”

One hand raised to part the blinds, as though Alex felt the need to get a better look at one of his cars. “That I've got cancer.”

Buddy was on his feet before he realized he had even moved. “Alex, oh, my God, tell me it's not true.”

“Wish I could, little brother.” Alex angled his body away from Buddy's approach so that his eyes were almost hidden from his brother. Almost, but not quite. “Went in for that checkup you and Molly have been on me about. Look where it got me.”

Buddy reached out his hand, stopped just short of touching Alex. “What kind is it?”

“I've forgotten the fancy name. In my lymph nodes.” He grimaced toward the window. “Haven't been feeling myself lately. Nothing definite, just aches and pains now and then, here and there.”

Alex had never been sick a day in his life. Just like his father. Buddy fought back a rising sense of nausea. He could not imagine a world without his brother. “Are they going to operate?”

“Can't. Wednesday they did one of those scans where they slide me inside a giant tin can, I can't remember the word now.”

“MRI scan.” And he had not been there. He had not even known. “Alex—”

“The stuff is everywhere, Buddy. Throat, under my arms, in my gut. Every lymph node has little bumps. They showed me.” He turned around now, and let Buddy see what was there in his eyes. “I've got another couple of tests, and then they start me on chemotherapy at the end of the week. It doesn't look good.”

Buddy did the only thing he could, which was to hide from the horror by taking his brother in his arms. Anything but stand there and see death's shadow in those dark eyes.

They held on for a long moment. When they finally released each other, neither could meet the other's gaze. Alex walked back around his desk, snuffling and wiping his face on his sleeve. “You know what I was thinking while you were telling me your news?”

“What?”

“That I wish there was something I could do to help.”

The words felt like a stab to his heart. Buddy had to cover his eyes with one hand. “Oh, Alex. I feel like I've been the one to make you ill.”

Alex huffed a short laugh. “What are you talking about now?”

“I made a bargain with God.” The words were a moan. “I told him I'd go out there and warn the world if He gave me three signs. Molly would have to say she wanted to go public with me. You would have to offer to help out. And the entire church finance committee would hear me out this evening and say the message was real.”

When his brother did not respond, Buddy looked up to find Alex grinning broadly. Alex asked, “Did Molly say she'd be there with you?”

“Right after church.”

Alex's chest started shaking with silent laughter. “Sounds to me like you've done sunk your own ship.”

“This isn't funny!” Buddy had to clamp down on his own case of shakes.

“Then why are you laughing?”

“I'm not. Well, maybe I am. It's better than crying, I suppose. Of all the things you could tell me.”

“You don't know which surprised you more, me getting sick or me wanting to help, am I right?”

“How can you be laughing about this?”

“It's the way I've handled everything else in this crazy life.”

“Crazy is right.” How on earth he could be laughing was utterly beyond him. “Alex—”

“I want to help you, Buddy. I really do. I've been lying awake at night thinking things over. How you always said I wasted my life.”

“If there were any way to take back those words, I'd do it,” Buddy said vehemently. “I should've had my mouth washed out with lye.”

“The words were true just the same. I want to do something good for somebody else.” A trace of the shadow returned. “While there's still time.”

“Alex, hearing you say those words is like a knife in my heart.”

Instead of replying, Alex slid over a yellow legal pad, pulled his pen from his pocket, and started making notes. “We'll make this your command center.”

“What, here?”

“Where did you plan on having it? You can't use the bank, that's for certain.”

“I hadn't thought that far.”

“Well, you'd better. They're not going to be very pleased to hear their manager start warning about a financial collapse.”

“Assistant manager.” But his mind was trapped by the realization that going public meant exactly that. “They won't be pleased at all.”

“'Course, we're not planning on calling them up and telling them what you're doing in your spare time.” He made rapid notes. “Anybody who wants to hear what you've got to say can call or fax us here.”

Each word Alex spoke made the whole affair that much more real. “I feel awful.”

“You look awful. You look like you need to go lie down before your third big sign comes true tonight.” Which was good for another chuckle. “Boy, did you ever get it coming and going.”

“Alex, I'd do anything—”

“Just stop right there. You didn't cause this illness.” Alex raised his eyes from his note taking. “Did it ever occur to you that your God might have
suggested
these signs to you?”

Buddy did not know which was more startling, the thought itself, or to hear it come from his brother. “He's your God too.”

“He might have known you'd need something like this to get you up and moving. If it's my time, well . . .” Alex stopped, momentarily silenced by the rising shadows. He pushed them back down and focused once more on his brother. “I want to help you do this, Buddy.”

“Then you will.” Buddy forced himself to his feet. “I'd better be going.”

“Call me tonight when you get back.” Another smile. “Tell me how it went.”

“All right.”

“Buddy.” Alex waited until Buddy turned back around to say quietly, “There was something else I was thinking while you were telling me about this message. I was thinking that God couldn't have chosen a better man.”

–|
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ELEVEN
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Buddy arrived at the church still numbed by his brother's news. He had left Molly teary eyed and heart-sore, trying hard to put on a brave face for him. But she did not need to be brave. Buddy was too worried to care much one way or the other.

He entered the church's main conference room to an argument. One so unexpected that it almost shocked Buddy from his cloud. The church's two pastors were squared off at the front of the room. The others present clustered in silent little groups, staring in confusion.

Pastor Allen demanded of his assistant pastor, “You are
certain
this is a good idea?”

“Yes, I am. More than that, I feel it is divinely inspired.”

Pastor Allen shook his head, clearly irritated. “I have to tell you, Clarke, I think this is unwise. Very unwise.”

“You weren't there,” Clarke Owen responded. He held to his normal, quiet tone, but he was equally firm. Equally unbending. “You didn't witness what I did.”

“We have too full an agenda already, as you well know.” Pastor Allen was a tremendously dynamic man in his mid-thirties, with an athlete's taut build and a movie star's even features. He dearly loved the Lord and approached the pulpit as he would a goal-line drive. He was definitely the force behind the church's revival and growth. He was also accustomed to subservience from his assistant pastor. “We have more than half the year's budgetary items to cover, and we're only two weeks away from presenting it to the church. Not to mention the shortfall in our missions goal. Something will have to be cut, and you know how hard a decision that is.”

“Buddy will not need much time,” Clarke responded. He seemed utterly unfazed by the pastor's determined arguments. His calm was unruffled, his stance relaxed. “All it took was a few short sentences to convince me.”

“Convince you of what?” Pastor Allen ran an impatient hand through his hair. “That Buddy has something of such divine importance that we have to interrupt the church's monthly finance meeting to share it?”

“I could not have said it better myself,” Clarke affirmed.

Buddy stood in the doorway, taking in one impression after another. The fact that they were arguing about him would normally have been enough to force him forward, to make peace between them. But today he could not do it. He felt shell-shocked, numbed by too much too fast.

There came another niggling notion, one that he did not at first recognize. Then it hit him with a start. The room was full. Hastily he counted the heads clustered at the room's other end. Fourteen. All fourteen members of the finance committee were present. He tried to recall another time in the twelve years he had worked with the committee when that had happened and could not come up with a single occasion.

Then he noticed the way they were standing. The committee members were drawn from the church's senior deacons and elders, along with a smattering of very large donors. They were people of importance within the community, people whose success and age generated solid confidence in their opinions. And since they all had opinions about everything, they argued all the time. They were a pompous, contentious lot, these committee members, and this was the impression of someone who loved them dearly. Talking about money and how to spend it often brought out the very worst in them. Only the leadership of both pastors working in tandem kept them in line—Pastor Allen leading from the front, Clarke Owen soothing from behind.

But today the normal lines of contention had vanished. The conference table was a long, slender oval stretching down the center of the room. Normally a group of seven or eight sat at the table, while any others chose positions on the sofas and in easy chairs that lined the side walls. These positions reflected their leanings; they seated themselves near the persons they tended to back.

Agatha Richards, a tall angular woman in her early sixties and widow to one of Aiden's richest men, headed one such group. She liked to see the church as spearheading a push to the farthest reaches of the earth. Every cent not spent on missions was reason for battle. To hear that her precious missions budget was to face a cutback was normally enough to have Agatha loading for bear.

Lionel Peters was the other powerhouse, a man who measured the church's progress by the height of its steeple. In his mind, the missions outreach should be restricted to what could be accomplished within the church's own buildings. He and Agatha genuinely loathed one another. And yet, and yet. Buddy stood in the doorway and watched the two of them standing side by side, their shoulders and arms almost touching. Like all the others, their eyes were fastened upon the two pastors. Who never argued. Who never seemed to differ in opinion on anything.

“I want you to give this up, Clarke.”

“I would be happy to,” his assistant pastor replied, “if I was not so certain that this was genuinely something that God was instructing me to do.”

Pastor Allen reddened. He started to say something else, then he noticed Buddy standing in the doorway. His lips struggled to form a welcoming smile, but he could only manage a further tightening of his features. “Buddy, hello. Good of you to come.” He turned so as to fasten his full attention on Buddy. “Clarke tells me that you have something of
vital importance
to share with us.”

“I don't know if I do or not.” Buddy recognized the pastor's appeal for support. But he could not give it. Not then. “If it is, I think that's something you folks are going to have to decide for me. Because right now I'm too drained to care.”

Clarke walked over. “Are you all right?”

“No, I'm not.” Sorrow hung like a leaden weight in his chest. He passed his hand over his eyes. “I just learned Alex has cancer.”

The entire room drew a collective breath. They all knew the story of Alex. Many of them had grown up with it.

Agatha was the first to reach him. “Buddy, I'm so sorry.”

The pastor was one step behind her. His concern was deepened by what he had just been saying. “This is terrible. How can we help?”

Buddy looked from one face to the other and saw the sorrow and genuine concern. “You're doing it now. Thanks.”

“Come on up here.” This from Pastor Allen. His former resistance had vanished. “Are you sure you're up to this today?”

“I just want to get it over with.”

“Fine, fine.” Allen guided Buddy into the chair he normally reserved for himself at the head of the table; then he motioned for everyone else to take their places. “Let's just bow our heads and have a moment of prayer.”