Almost Heaven (35 page)

“Yeah. And my mama pushed me to go with him, too. But after I made up my mind, I was done. After a few weeks he stopped calling and I think he knew.”

“That speaks well of you. That you had the strength to break free from that is great. Not everyone could do that.” He shook his head. “I'm proud of you, Billy. I think your mother and father would be proud of you too. I'm sorry they weren't able to be there for you through the years.”

A mist came to my eyes. I could remember my mother saying that my daddy would be proud of me, but I'd never heard those words from him.

“So what do I do now?” I said. “Do I make contact? Do I try to talk to him?”

“Do you want to?”

“Part of me does. Wants him to know what he did was wrong. And that what happened is not okay. It caused a good deal of hurt.”

He nodded. “I think it's a good idea. I think it's part of the freedom you're looking for. You tell him the truth. You say what you know is true and let the chips fall.”

“But what's the point? If he owns up to it and apologizes, I have an apology. And if he says I'm crazy and denies everything, it makes it more painful. Like he's sticking a knife in my back and turning it.”

“There's always a risk in telling the truth, Billy. You can't control how anybody responds. But it's always better to get this stuff into the light.”

Something moved over me like a cloud and stayed there. Thoughts. Repercussions. “What about Callie?”

“What about her?” he said.

“What's she going to think of me if I tell her this?”

“You think this revelation would cause her to stop loving you? Let me ask you this. Do you love her after what she's been through?”

“Of course. It doesn't make any difference.”

“Then why should it make a difference to her what happened years ago? What you went through was every bit as hard as what she went through. Maybe harder.”

“That can't be true. I made the choice to go back.”

“Callie had an evil man do despicable things to her. You had somebody you trusted use you. He was in a place of authority over you and he violated you. Callie has to work through a lot of things, no question about that. But you have to dig through that coal mine that's been covered over by years of living and hoping it wouldn't come back to haunt you. Your work is just as hard.”

“I hadn't thought about it that way.”

He leaned closer. “Just know that I'll be behind you. And so will Callie.”

26

The next week I brought the letter I had written, all four pages front and back on a yellow legal pad. I hadn't talked with Callie about it because I knew this was something I had to do myself. I was doing this for me and not somebody else, but I knew when it was over, things would probably be different for Callie and me. I didn't know that for a fact but I hoped it.

I told my counselor I wasn't much for the written word, that I was mostly a spoken-word man, but when he finished reading it, he had a big grin on his face as he folded it and put it in the envelope.

“I wouldn't change a word, Billy,” he said as he handed the envelope back. “But I do disagree with one thing.”

“What's that?”

“You said you're not a man of the written word. That's a beautifully written letter. You were specific and descriptive—I don't know how he could argue with anything you've put in there. And it's clear you want the truth out in the open. How do you feel about it?”

“Pretty good, I guess. I wrote it five times. I'd wake up in the middle of the night with something new to put down, some memory that came up. I don't know if I got it right or not.”

“Remember, it's not about getting it right. It's about saying what's true.”

“Okay.”

“Now, make a copy of the whole thing,” he said. “He's going to burn it.”

“You think so?”

“He's not going to want anybody to see this. He's going to ask you if you intend to press charges.”

“Could I?”

“You know all those cases with the Catholic priests. They settled out of court years later, with the grown-up altar boys.”

“I don't want a penny of his money.”

“What do you want?”

“I want him to say he was wrong. That he's sorry.”

“You may not get that.”

“But it's worth a shot, right?”

“It's worth following your heart, Billy. And the truth is always worth it.”

* * *

I sent the letter by registered mail that day. Three days later, late in the afternoon, I took a phone call that had nothing but silence on the other end. I said hello two times and then heard the voice that gave me the shivers.

“Billy Allman. It's Vernon Turley.”

I paused. “I figured I'd be hearing from you. You got my letter.”

“I did. Do you want to get together and talk about this?”

I took a deep breath. “Yeah, I do.”

He mentioned a restaurant that was located between him and Dogwood, and I said I'd be there the next evening. That night I didn't sleep, and all the next day I kept accusing myself of doing something stupid. He wasn't that bad. I was blowing things out of proportion. Everybody goes through hard stuff. God can use even the negative.

But the voice of my counselor kept coming back. This was not some little thing. It was life-altering. It had affected every part of me. And I deserved an apology. If nothing else, I was going to get that from him.

* * *

The Western Steer sits on a little hill just off Interstate 64, a nondescript brick building with a view of passing cars and the changing colors of trees. Wooden tables and chairs rest on faded carpet, and the servers all look like they know they're not going to get much of a tip from folks who wander like cattle through the double doors.

It was cloudy and menacing when I walked in a half hour early. The wind was picking up and turning the leaves skyward.

The lady at the front asked how many were in my party and showed me to a table near the front. I asked if it would be possible to get a booth in the back for a little more privacy and she took me back near the men's restroom. After she left, I caught up with her and told her I'd changed my mind and that the first table she showed me would be a lot better. She rolled her eyes and said, “Suit yourself.”

I sat with my back to the front door and sipped a glass of water. My hand shook as I drank it, preparing what I was going to say and wondering what he was going to say. Vernon was the kind of guy who took over a room when he walked in, and I wanted to be in control of the situation.

A few people sat down around me, and when the server asked what I would like, I told her I'd order a salad but I wouldn't take it until the person I was meeting came. The salad was the cheapest thing on the menu. I had made up my mind that there was no way he was going to pay for my meal.

The door opened behind me and I swear I felt his presence. It was as if Count Dracula had swooped down. I stared straight ahead, at the dusty elephant ear in the corner near the bathroom, waiting. He came up behind me and cleared his throat.

“Billy?”

I turned my head slightly, not to look at him but to acknowledge his presence. “Vernon.”

He took off his jacket and held it. Then he snapped his fingers to get the attention of the server. “Could we have a booth back there, please?”

The woman came fast.

“No,” I said.

He looked down at me, shocked. “Billy, I'd feel more comfortable back there.”

“I'm sure you would. I'm good here.”

He lowered his voice. “This conversation will be private.”

The lady had picked up his menu and was holding it, waiting for us to follow.

“I'm sitting here. If you want to sit back there and yell across the dining room, that's your choice. I'll be here.”

He stood there a minute and I just stared at the water. Finally he took the menu back, placed his jacket on the chair beside me, and sat with elegance. The greatest dignitaries of the world did not have the air that Vernon Turley had. The server walked away and then returned with his glass of water and asked if he would like something else to drink or if he was ready to order.

“Have you ordered?” he asked me.

I nodded.

“I'll have the ten-ounce rib eye with baked potato, no butter or sour cream, medium well. Tossed salad with oil and vinegar on the side.” He was finally watching his waistline. While we were on the road, he would snack or have sodas with the rest of us.

He asked about my station and the land and all kinds of things to make small talk, but I tried to show him I wasn't interested in making this more comfortable for him. He pulled the letter from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table.

“So . . . ,” he said softly. “What are your intentions?”

My counselor's words came back to me and I stifled a smile. “You read the letter?”

His eyes showed fear like a cornered animal. Part of me felt sorry for him and I pushed that away.

“I did. It was quite a shock. I had no idea you could be this way.”

I raised my eyebrows. “
I
could be this way? And what way is that?”

“It would have been more helpful if you would have shown some gratitude for the opportunities I gave you. My wife asked me about the letter. She wonders why you left the group. What happened to you.”

“Why don't you let her read it? That would sure clear things up fast, don't you think?”

His eyes narrowed and the muscles in his face tightened. “Because it's not true. Why are you trying to destroy me?”

“I'm not trying to destroy you.”

“Do you know what this kind of accusation could do to me? my reputation?”

An older lady wobbled up to the table from behind him and pecked him on the shoulder. “You're Vernon Turley, aren't you?”

He pushed back and smiled, then stood. “Yes, I am.”

“I have all your recordings. They mean so much, especially since I lost my husband. The Lord has worked through you, and I just wanted you to know that.”

He took her hand in both of his and looked down at her bent form. It was a surreal moment, considering what was in the letter in front of him. The server came with my salad, and the lady thanked him again, almost in tears, and toddled back to her booth where two other geriatric women sat. They talked loud enough for us to hear what a “blessing” Vernon's ministry had been.

I bowed my head and said a silent prayer of thanks and of petition for the strength to say what I was about to say. After a bite of salad, I said, “Were there others?”

He looked up at me and now his eyes were hollow. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. What you did to me . . . did it happen to anybody else?”

He looked at my chest closely and it was only later that I figured out he was wondering if I was recording the whole thing. That made me wish I was.

“Billy, I don't know what drove you to write such things in this letter. I don't know why you would make such vile accusations—”

“Because it's true. Every word of it and you know it. And if you're going to sit there and tell me it's not, this dinner is over.”

I picked up my napkin, pushed back the chair, and reached for my wallet. He reached out for my arm and I pulled away.

“Now don't do anything rash; just stay here.” He ran a hand through his hair and cautiously looked around to see if anyone had noticed the tussle. “This is on me, by the way.”

“No, it's not,” I said. “You're not going to pay for your sins with an eight-dollar salad.”

“I'm not trying to pay for sins. I'm offering this meal as a gift, as a way of saying I'm sorry you feel so bad about what happened. And if there's some other way I can repay you, I will.”

I picked up a radish and popped it into my mouth. “You're sorry I feel so bad? That's kind of like the coal company telling our family they were sorry it rained so much. What you did was no act of God, Pastor.”

“Please, keep your voice down.” He said it with his hands out over the table as if he were conducting a symphony.

“I'm not keeping my voice down. And I'm not raising it either. If we were talking about your music career or the latest ball scores, this is the level we'd be talking at. So if you don't like it, I'll just leave.”

“No, please, Billy. Let's be civil. I'm sure we can come to an understanding.”

“Well, it's going to be a little difficult to come to an understanding when you don't even admit to doing what I detailed in that letter. And there can't be any middle ground. Either I am lying through my teeth in there, I'm a fruitcake who has no idea what he's talking about, or I'm telling the truth. Tell me straight out right now which of those three things you think is happening.”

He took a bite of salad and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “It's not so cut-and-dried as that, Billy. I believe this is the way you remember it and I'm sorry. I truly am. To think that I hurt you in some way is quite painful. I don't know how to say how sorry I am you feel this way. But there are different viewpoints, different perspectives.”