Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (32 page)

There was a period of absolute silence.

“Is that how you explain your divorce?” asked Tim.

“It is."

“Now that I think about it, that may be my situation as well,” said Tim seriously.

“I choose to believe that somewhere in the recent past you and Sandy became husband and wife,” Mack continued. “What you want to do on Christmas Eve is to make it legal. I have no problem thinking of that as a renewal of vows."

Sandra could stand it no longer. She rushed to his side, hugged him and covered his cheek with kisses as her tears flowed.

“Hey, now,” Mack cautioned. “I can't do anything about the snow."

The portable telephone brought to the dining room for the expected call began to ring. Sandra answered, then passed the phone to Mack. He listened, smiled, spoke briefly and pressed the off button.

“Looks like I'm the new pastor of Dot Baptist Church,” he said.

Sincere congratulations came from each of the Dollars. “Was the vote unanimous?” Tim asked.

“I didn't ask and Deacon Beverage didn't say."

“I'll bet it was,” assured Sandra.

It wasn't. In fact, the motion passed by a narrow ten-vote margin. Some people thought the salary was too high. Some thought Mack McGee was too liberal. Some felt Mac's divorce should disqualify him from the ministry. Some were concerned about his shady past and especially about his love of playing pool. Several preferred Bible slapping, foot stomping, fiery sermons over Mack's gentle reasoned conversations. No one saw any reason to tell Mack how close the vote had really been, not even his detractors. Certainly Mary Lou Honneycutt, who left the meeting in tears, would never tell.

Although the sun was now shining, it was too cold to sit on the porch. After depositing the dishes in the kitchen, they settled in the den, over Mack's mild protest. He wanted to spend the afternoon with Mary Lou, but Sandra said there was one further serious matter they needed to discuss with him.

She sat on a footstool in front of him and Mack thought she looked like a Norman Rockwell painting of a daughter sitting at her father's feet, eager to learn.

“Mack,” she began. “Tim and I have been reading your
Gospel of John
together, and he has been explaining things to me. Tim wants to go ahead and join the church. He hasn't said so, but I know he does."

Tim did not argue the point.

“The trouble is, he wants me to join with him. I want to, but I can't, at least not yet. Well, that's not true. I could, but it would be a sham."

“Sandy, you once told me you believe in God, but your beliefs are unconventional. I know you have been giving it some thought. Where have those thoughts led you? What do you believe about him now?"

“Her,” Sandra corrected.

Tim smiled, recalling a similar conversation on the day he met Sandra.

“Okay,” laughed the minister. “In addition to believing that God is a woman what do you believe?"

“Not much that I could write down on a sheet of paper,” she confessed. “I believe God exists. I believe in God as the Creator, but not the hocus pocus kind of creation that you people believe in."

Mack let that pass. “Do you believe that God cares about people? That he, excuse me, she cares about you?"

“Not really,” she confessed. “I remember reading a poem in school. A couple of lines went, ‘I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul.’ That's what I believe. Blaming God for our screwed up lives is a copout. When things go wrong, it is either because we screwed up or just plain bad luck. If things go well, again, it's not God's miracles that caused it, but rather our hard work or maybe just plain old-fashioned good luck."

“Dudette,” Tim softly asked, “do you have any explanation as to why you and I met on Highway 13 just a few weeks ago?"

“It was coincidence, Tim. Good luck for me, but luck nonetheless."

“I remember you preached me quite a sermon on that day about it being God's will for me to look after you. Don't you think there is any possibility that God was looking out for you, for both of us, the afternoon that coincidence occurred?"

Her eyes grew fierce and it frightened Tim a little. He had never seen her like this. “Hell, Tim. I used every trick I could think of to keep you from abandoning me that day. The God thing is what worked.” She paused, then literally screamed through her tears. “If God cares about me, why did she let my daddy fuck me when I was only twelve years old?"

She leaped from the stool, but Tim was ahead of her, crushing her to him and letting her cry on his shoulder.

“Oh God, Mack. I'm so sorry I said that."

Suddenly three people were hugging each other. With great feeling Mack said, “Sandy, that's the highest compliment you can ever pay me. Every time someone lets me walk around on the inside of his or her soul, I take off my hat and pull off my shoes. I know I am walking on holy ground. Sandy, I know men who have left the ministry because they could not answer your question. I have no answer, either."

Sandra pulled away from the group, wiped her eyes and blew her nose on the handkerchief Tim offered her. Again she said, in a very small voice, “Mack, I am so sorry I said that."

Now Mack hugged her again with Tim standing nervously beside them. “Sandy, may I make three suggestions?"

“Sure,” she sniffed, successfully stemming the stream of tears.

“First, write down what you believe about God. Take your time. There's no hurry. Whenever you think of something, jot it down. Second, let me make an appointment for you with a good friend of mine in the Department of Pastoral Care at Baptist Hospital. You have some deep, long-term traumas that you need to work through. Finally, I think you very much want to join the church to please Tim, but your deep reverence for God, which you do not fully realize you have, is keeping you from, as you say, making a sham of it. If you like, you can become a part of the church, though not a voting member, by watchcare."

She pulled away. “What does that mean?"

“It means,” he explained, “that you believe in God, want to be a part of the church, but for reasons of your own which you never have to explain, you are not yet ready to formally join."

“I can do that?” she asked.

“Yes."

“I can do that,” she repeated, but this time it was not a question.

After Mack departed, Sandra and Tim washed the dishes. Tim settled down to watch a golf tournament on television and Sandra went to her library, intending to begin writing down what she really believed about God, but she made the mistake of looking first at the last chapter she had written of her novel. Instead of writing about the Almighty, she found herself writing a highly graphic child rape scene.

“I overslept,” Sandra said sheepishly as she entered the kitchen.

“Bacon and eggs coming up,” Tim replied. “It won't hurt me to do the cooking once in a while."

“The question is, will it hurt me?” she kidded, pouring a cup of steaming coffee. “Dude, I'm sorry I came unglued yesterday."

Tim removed the sizzling bacon from the iron skillet and placed it on a paper towel to drain. He tapped an egg on the side of the pan, pulled the shell apart with his thumbs and watched with dismay as the yoke burst and ran all over the pan.

“Damn."

“You make the toast. Let the expert fry our eggs,” she scolded.

“Sandy, we need to get our heads together sometime this week and do some planning. Diane said that she would provide me with a copy of the notes she made at the town meeting. I'm going by the newspaper office first thing this morning and pick them up. I want to draw up a list of projects along with the names of those who volunteered to work on them."

Two slices of golden brown bread popped up. Tim removed them, inserted two more slices of bread in the toaster, and began to apply butter.

“I want to keep close tabs on all of these projects. We need to push on while interest is high."

“One thing I want us to think about, Tim, is the idea that came up in the meeting about a golf course. People laughed, but I think it might fit in with your concept of a housing development and thinking of people in Charlotte as our customers."

She slid the spatula under one perfectly fried egg and the remnants of Tim's attempt, placed them on a plate, and cracked two more into the sizzling bacon grease.

Tim poured two large glasses of orange juice and returned the carton to the refrigerator. “It makes sense to me,” he said. “I have no idea how to proceed, but I'm sure there are people who design golf courses. In fact, during the golf tournament I watched on TV yesterday, the announcer mentioned that Arnold Palmer designed the course."

They sat at the table in the breakfast room. Sandra resumed the conversation. “I have another idea, but you will think it's stupid."

His mouth too full to speak, he protested her remark with his eyes.

“I haven't looked over all of your property, yet..."

“Our property,” he corrected.

She smiled warmly. “Anyway, I know there are several large ponds scattered about. I think it would be great if we expanded one of the ponds into a ten or twenty acre lake, stocked it with fish, and built simple log cabins around it to rent out."

“You think Charlotte people would spend some weekends with us fishing?"

“Sure, and we could make interesting hiking trails through the wooded areas, build a croquette lawn, a volleyball court, add picnic tables and outdoor fireplaces—things like that."

Tim visualized Sandra's suggestion and liked what he saw. “Let's get our people together early next week and see what they think."

“Who are ‘our people'?"

He laughed. “Well, there's you and me, Bobby and Carl of course, and Vic will start working for us next week."

“I think we need to include Susan as one of ‘our people’ too."

“I agree,” Tim said, “but maybe ‘our people’ is a little presumptuous."

“How about ‘The Inner Circle?’”

“I like it,” he said, wrapping his arms around her.

Tim did go to the
Courier
office and was pleased that Diane had transferred her notes to computer and arranged them in logical order.

There was another project on his mind that he did not want to share with Sandra and he headed for the attorney's office to enlist Victoria White's help.

After she got Tim on his way to town and the dishes washed, Sandra settled at her computer to continue the writing of her novel. She had slept well, but felt drained. For one of the few times since starting to work on it, her characters refused to perform. She turned off the computer and went to the bookshelf.

Having finished the reading of
Middlemarch
and writing what she thought was a good review for the
Courier
, Sandra pulled another George Eliot title from the shelf and fondled it as she made herself comfortable in her reading chair.

She knew
Adam Bede
was Mary Ann's first novel, and was pleased to find, as she thumbed trough its pages, that even though it was a lengthy book the print was large enough to read easily. When she began the first chapter, she found it was not so easy to read after all. The print size was okay, but Eliot's characters spoke in dialect and she had difficulty deciphering the numerous strange contractions. She liked the characters introduced in the first chapter—blue-collar people—carpenters. She especially liked Adam Bede and his lovable dog, Gyp. The introduction of a female Methodist preacher character reminded Sandra that Mary Ann was a women's libber before her time.

Suddenly, as she so often did when reading George Eliot, she stopped and backtracked. Adam was talking with his co-workers on a religious subject.

...I know a man must have the love o’ God in his soul, and the Bible's God's word. But what does the Bible say? Why, it says as God put his sperrit into the workman as built the tabernacle, to make him do all the carved work and things as wanted a nice hand. And this is my way o’ looking at it: there's the sperrit o’ God in all things and all times—week-day as well as Sunday—and i’ the great works and inventions, and i’ the figuring and the mechanics. And God helps us with our head-pieces and our hands as well as with our souls; and if a man does bits o’ jobs out o’ working hours—builds a oven for ‘s wife to save her from going to the bakehouse, or scrats at his bit ‘o garden and makes two potatoes grow instead o’ one, he's doing more good, and he's just as near to God, as if he was running after some preacher and a-praying and a-groaning.

Using her finger as a temporary bookmark Sandra rested her head on the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling, not seeing it. She thought Adam made two good points, which she needed to consider seriously. First, she conceded, if God is a personal God, she could, and would, help someone to perform his or her best at everyday tasks. Second, if God is a personal God, religion is not about putting on fancy clothes and going to church on Sundays, though surely there's nothing wrong with that.

She began reading chapter two and found that it was largely a sermon, preached by the Methodist lady. She concentrated on every word and her heart soared as she read.

But perhaps doubts come into your mind like this: Can God take much notice of us poor people? Perhaps he only made the world for the great and the wise and the rich. It doesn't cost him much to give us our little handful of victual and bit of clothing; but how do we know he cares for us any more than we care for the worms and things in the garden, so as we rear our carrots and onions? Will God take care of us when we die? and has he any comfort for us when we are lame and sick and helpless? Perhaps, too, he is angry with us; else why does the blight come, and the bad harvests, and the fever, and all sorts of pain and trouble? For our life is full of trouble, and if God sends us good, he seems to send bad too. How is it? how is it?"

They were asking my question one hundred years ago, Sandra realized. She read the remainder of the chapter eagerly; anxious to find the lady preacher's answer, but when she reached the sermon's conclusion, her hope turned to anger.