The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek (6 page)

“Preacher?”

Adam looked up from his Bible, attempting to bring himself back to the present from the time of David. Maggie stood at the door. “Yes?”

“I need the hymns for Sunday.”

He picked a piece of paper from the printer tray, glanced at it, then grabbed the list of Miss Birdie–approved hymns and a pen. With that, he crossed out his choices and changed every hymn to one of Miss Birdie’s choosing.

That should make her believe she’d broken him in, which should make his life easier. His plan was, little by little, to slip in some of the newer hymns and drop most of the Fanny Crosby hymns and several of the old favorites she enjoyed. “Jesus Is Tenderly Calling Me Home” had always made him feel as if he were at a funeral. However, allowing Miss Birdie to win the first skirmish seemed like an excellent strategy.

Finished, he handed the list to Maggie and headed out to call on Sam Peterson. Easily finding the right house, Adam picked up all the papers—two weeks’ worth—and placed them on the porch next to the front door, then rang the bell.

He didn’t hear the sound of the chime inside, so he knocked. And knocked again. No one came, and it seemed as if no one would. If Captain Peterson didn’t want visitors, Adam had to respect that. Besides, even a minister could hardly force himself on the man. Adam backed away from the door and turned to step off the porch.

He’d keep trying. He wanted to meet this man and he knew Miss Birdie wouldn’t let him forget his duty.

F
riday evening Adam lay half-on-half-off the sofa, watching some action program he couldn’t concentrate on.

The time since his arrival had gone well. Most of the congregation liked his preaching, although the pillar—Miss Birdie—made several suggestions. He’d made a number of much-appreciated hospital and nursing home visits and met the ministers of the Lutheran and Episcopal churches, spent a few hours at the food pantry every week, had coffee with Father Joe, and done a lot of ministerial stuff. But books and boxes still covered the surfaces and floors of the office. Someday he’d get to them.

As busy as he’d been with all those activities and events and meetings and services to fill time, Adam felt on edge. For the past few days, he hadn’t been able to sit still. In the parsonage, he’d paced through the parlors and up and down the hall several times, even up the stairs to wander into empty bedrooms and the attic, then back down, over and over. None of that movement brought relief.

Adam stood and moved to stare out the front window.

Somewhere out there lay what he needed. Could he find it tonight? How would he be able to locate his fix in a new town?

Where to start?

He didn’t know, but he had to find something to get him through the night, to allow him to sleep, to take the edge off.

He had to find a pickup game of roundball.

After changing into athletic shoes and sweats, he found his basketball and dribbled it down the stairs, across the hall, and outside.

During Daylight Saving Time, sunlight in Central Texas lasted until nine thirty. If he could find a court, he’d have about an hour to shoot hoops.

Some people ran. Others walked or swam. Adam played basketball. He’d always needed the physical demands of the game to release all the pent-up tension and nervous energy his body built up with inactivity. Add to that the stress accumulated over the days without exercise, the jitters of being a new minister, the strain of knowing Miss Birdie watched his every move. His body screamed for a hard game of basketball.

He missed the competition, the moves, the jukes, and the almost chess-like thinking that took place in nearly every game, even pickup games.

Easy to find a game in Kentucky where basketball was pretty much another religion. If no one at the seminary was playing, he’d cross the street to the university or to Prall Town, a nearby neighborhood.

He jogged down streets lined by crepe myrtle. Heavy with flowers, their branches stretched up and up before crashing down in cascades of pink or purple or cottony white. Every now and then, a dog came to the fence and sniffed or growled. Several barked loudly enough to be called back by waving neighbors.

“Good evening, Preacher,” a man called from his yard.

Recognizing the voice and face of a church member but not remembering his name, Adam wandered over to the fence.

The member of the congregation glanced at the ball Adam carried. “Looking for a game?” He pointed. “Over yonder. A block south and a couple more east. Goliad Park. Always a game going on.”

Adam followed the directions. As he got closer, the noise and the glow of lights blazing through trees drew his attention.

On the court, two teams, players of different sizes and colors, worked hard, sweat dripping down their faces and bodies causing dark skin to glow like ebony. Near the fence stood several more guys and a couple of girls, all watching and cheering. On a court farther south, young women played.

If this had been a party or social hour, Adam would have walked away, uncomfortable because he didn’t know anyone. But this was
ball
. He didn’t lack confidence here. “I’ve got next,” he yelled. Did the rules and phrases from Kentucky work here?

The games stopped. Everyone—those on both courts and those watching—turned toward him. Adam knew exactly what they saw: a newcomer, a tall, skinny old guy carrying a ball. Most of the players outweighed him by thirty pounds, and Adam had at least five or ten years on them. A few snickered. Others grinned and laughed.

“I’ve got next,” he repeated, undaunted.

They nodded before resuming their games.

While they played, Adam dribbled toward one of the baskets outside the court and tossed up a few shots, then moved farther away and put several more in.

“You shoot like that when you’re guarded?”

Slowly and deliberately, Adam took another shot, missed, rebounded, and put it in before glancing at the speaker. The kid outweighed him and was stronger but Adam had more experience, a few inches’ advantage in height, and longer arms.

Sweat glistened on the player’s dark skin, which meant he must have warmed up and been playing already. Should be good competition.

“Try me.” Adam tossed the ball to him.

Expressionless, the kid watched him for a second, then put the ball on the cracked asphalt and dribbled, glancing left, then right, and from Adam’s feet to his eyes, watching and judging his movements. With a fake to the left and a drive to the right, the other player broke toward the basket. Like a hustler, Adam gave him that one. An early score made the other guy overconfident and cockier.

The kid turned with a big grin. With swagger and attitude, he tossed Adam the ball. The preacher had the guy exactly where he wanted him. Before he could react, Adam put the ball in the air for a long shot. The ball didn’t make a sound as it passed through the metal chain of the basket. All that swagger and attitude disappeared, and the two got down to playing ball.

For the next thirty minutes, they fought. Despite the breeze, sweat poured down them both. They threw elbows, tripped each other, shoved and talked trash. Adam’s trash talk consisted of “Oh, yeah?” and “Who’s your daddy?” among other tame taunts, but it worked okay for him. The kid used tougher phrases filled with words the preacher hadn’t used in years, but they didn’t bother him. He didn’t really hear them. All he cared about was the game, the competition. When he played ball, Adam wasn’t clumsy or uncertain or too young and inexperienced. He was in the zone.

Within a few minutes, a small crowd had gathered, including the guys who’d been playing when he arrived. After a hard-fought game, Adam won thirty to twenty-six.

“Hey, Pops, you play pretty well for a skinny guy,” his opponent said.

Adam read the subtext:
pretty good for a skinny white guy
. The nickname showed the kid recognized the preacher as being older, but he didn’t care. He’d more than held his own against the youngster. That felt good.

The other guy spun the ball on his finger and studied Adam. “I’m Hector Firestone.”

“Hector.” Adam nodded but didn’t say more for a few seconds. He was so winded he could barely talk, but darned if he’d let Hector know that. “Just call me Pops.”

As he walked home that night, dribbling the ball in front of him and making moves toward phantom baskets, Adam cooled off and considered the next day.

Sam Peterson. He had to visit him again. Or try to.

Sam groaned, inside. He didn’t want to face intake with a PT who had read his eyes and understood what the redness meant. But here he sat, in her office, waiting for an interview and for the therapist to lay out a program to fix him. He looked out the window between her office and the treatment room.

As if feeling his gaze on her, Willow glanced at him, then away as she chatted with a patient. He grinned as he considered what he’d say to her. He noticed again the brackets between her eyes and understood them better. Moving to Texas, a cheating husband, and two active boys, as well as a new job, could wear a woman out. Maybe a year ago, he’d have sympathized, but compassion no longer made his top twenty list. In fact, compassion came well below “attempt to function” and “could care less.”

As she entered the office, Willow Thomas turned a friendly smile at him but still didn’t react like other women. Her lack of response probably was good but still odd in a
life-is-pain
sort of way. The only woman he’d seen in months whom he
might
like to attract didn’t respond to his charms. Not at all. Not that he wanted to attract her, not now, but a positive response, the usual
my-my-my-aren’t-you-hot
reaction, would feel good.

With another surreptitious glance at the redhead, he realized what a bunch of bull his desire
not
to attract her was. He’d like her to find him attractive and not only for the ego boost.

Once in her office, he’d shoved the crutches against the wall and settled into the chair, glad to take the weight off his shoulders. Aware of the warning from his doctor and the PTs in other hospitals not to cross his legs, he did exactly that, right over left, to see if he could get a rise from the professional and gorgeous therapist.

Before her death, his mother would’ve said he was acting out. He didn’t care; he wanted to see the woman’s response. Most likely, her dimples and honeyed smile would disappear.

Leaning back, he attempted to use the biofeedback exercise again. His leg hurt, but he found it difficult to relax in this chair with the commotion outside and the proximity of the redhead.

“Hello, Captain Peterson.” She stood in front of him. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said.

Yeah, fat chance.

“As you know, I’m Willow Thomas, one of the two PTs in the department. I’d like to review the notes Trixie made the other day and conduct an intake interview with you.”

As Willow closed the door, he saw her eyeing his crossed leg, but she didn’t say a word about it. Choosing her battles, he guessed.

“How are you doing today?”

“Peachy.”

She nodded like she believed him, settled at her desk, and brought a file up on her screen. She perused the information for a moment before turning in the chair to look at him. “Why don’t you tell me about your injury?” She picked up a clipboard. “You served in Afghanistan? A marine?”

He nodded.

“Your records say you were stabilized in Hawaii then transferred to Walter Reed in DC?” At his nod, she continued, “A transtibial amputation. That’s fortunate.”

“Oh, yeah, losing your leg is always lucky. All of us amputees celebrate it every glorious day.”

She blinked. “I apologize. I can’t believe I said that.” She bit her lower lip. “I shouldn’t have used those words. What I meant is a transtibial amputation is easier to treat, easier to find a prosthesis that fits, one that will be comfortable. The loss of part of your leg certainly is not a lucky event.” She attempted a smile but it came off more worn-out than cheerful. “An unfortunate choice of words. I’m sorry.”

He nodded again.

She studied the screen. “I see you already have your initial prosthesis.” She glanced at the leg, which obviously didn’t have one. “Do you have it with you?”

He’d have to use a few more words to explain. “It’s at home. It’s not comfortable.”

She nodded, with sympathy. He hated sympathy and the sweet smiles and pitying glances that came with it. He slid down farther in the chair. He knew he was behaving like a butthead, but he figured if he was drowning, why should he go alone?

“We’ll see what we can do to alleviate the pain, maybe add some cushioning. You’re going to have to get used to the prosthesis you have before the prosthetist can fit you for a new one.”

Like the new one would be better.

She glanced at his records again. “All right, let me check your file. I have copies of your initial intake from Hawaii and another from DC.” She looked up with green eyes as clear as a high mountain spring, exactly the same color as her sons’. On them they looked full of spirit and mischief. On her, they promised healing.

He’d rather they promised something else.

She turned away from the screen to face him. “How did you happen to end up in Butternut Creek when you could have rehabbed at Walter Reed or other large facilities?”

He’d have to speak or he’d look like even more of a jerk than he was. “Didn’t want to stay in DC so the general—that’s my father—pulled a few strings. He was a marine, too. My aunt died a while back and left me a house over on Pine Street.”

“On Pine Street?” She smiled at him. “I live close to that, in the new apartments on Eleventh.”

“Oh?” He nodded as if the information were new.

“Why don’t you tell me about your daily schedule,” she asked. “What’s your level of activity? What kind of physical activity do you take part in?”

He narrowed his eyes and grinned—inside. “I do a lot of elbow bending, ma’am.” He mimed the actions of pouring from a bottle to a glass, then drinking. With a slow, mocking grin, he added, “I do it very well. No pain. No problems.”

He had to hand it to her. A complete professional, she allowed not one sign of judgment or disgust to cross her face, to give away her opinion of a man who spent his day filling himself with booze to smooth off the ragged edges of pain and splinters of loss. She must have interviewed a lot of angry, depressed wounded vets.

“But you’re a physical therapist,” he said to the top of her head as she made notes. “Why are you asking me questions about occupational therapy?” He knew the difference. He’d been interrogated by dozens of people in many different departments since the injury.