The Heaven Trilogy (28 page)

The thought of revisiting their past brought an edginess to her heart. They could always talk about death, of course. It was their common bridge now. Death. But Kent was not thinking death. Something else was running around behind those eyes.

“I met a cop today,” he said out of the blue, staring at his coffee.

“A cop?”

“Yeah. I was just sitting there in the bookstore, and this cop sits down and starts giving me the third degree about Spencer. About my boy, Spencer.” His face drifted into a snarl as he talked. He looked up, and his eyes were flashing. “Can you believe the audacity of that? I mean—” He glanced out the window and lifted a hand helplessly. “I was just sitting there, minding my own business, and this pinhead cop starts accusing me.”

“Accusing you of what?”

“I don't even know. That was just it. He goes on as if I had something to do with . . .” He stopped and swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing against the emotion boiling through his chest. “With Spencer's death,” he finished.

“Come on, Kent! That's absurd!”

“I know. It
is
absurd. Then he just went on, as if he knew things, you know.”

“What things?”

“I don't know.” He was shaking his head. The poor man sat there like someone strung together by a few brittle strands of flesh. Surely he could not have had anything to do with his own son's death! Could he? Of course not!

“It was like a scene out of
TheTwilight Zone.”

“Well, I'm sure you have nothing to worry about. The authorities do things like that as a matter of routine. It's ridiculous. You'll never hear from the man again.”

“And maybe you're wrong,” he said. She blinked at his tone. “Maybe I have plenty to worry about. The last thing I need is some pinhead with a badge poking his greasy head into my life! I swear I could tear his head off !”

She stared at him, unsure how to respond. “Maybe you need to lighten up, Kent. You've got nothing to hide, right? Don't let it get to you.”

“Yeah, easy for you to say. It's not your neck he's breathing down.”

Now she felt her face flush. “And it's not yours, either. The police are just doing their job. They should be the least of your concerns. And just in case you're confused here, I'm not one of them. I work at a bank, remember?”

Kent looked at the ceiling and sighed. “I'm sorry. You're right.” He collected himself, nodding as if slowly coming to agreement. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head, gritting his teeth in frustration.

Yes indeed, he had been pummeled lately. She wondered what had really happened to bring him to this strange state.

He was smiling at her, his blue eyes suddenly soft and bright at once, like she remembered them from their previous life. “You're right, Lacy. You see, that's what I needed to hear. You always did have a way with the simple truth, you know.”

She gulped and hoped immediately that he had not noticed. It was not his words but the way he had said them that bothered her, as if at that moment he was dripping with admiration for her.

She chuckled nervously. “If I remember correctly, you were never too stupid yourself.”

“Well, we had our times, didn't we?”

She had to look away this time. An image of Kent leaning over her as they lay under the great cottonwood behind her dormitory filled her mind. “I love you,” he was whispering, and then he touched her lips with his own. She wanted to shake the image from her head, force her heart back to its normal rhythm, but she could only sit there, pretending nothing at all was happening in her chest.

“Yes, we did,” she said.

Tension hung in the air as if someone had thrown a switch somewhere and filled the room with a thick cloud of charged particles. Lacy could feel his eyes on her cheek, and she finally turned to face him. She gave him a controlled grin. This was madness! He had lost his sensibilities! Two minutes ago he was ranting about some cop and how he would like to tear the poor fellow's head off, and now he was staring at her like some honeymooner.

Death does that to people, Lacy,
she reasoned quickly.
It makes them lose their sensibilities. And you're reading way too much into that look. It's not as bad as it looks.

And then bad went to terrible. Because then Lacy felt heat swallow her face despite her best efforts to stop it. Yes indeed, she was blushing. As red as a cooked lobster. And he could see it all. She knew that because he too was suddenly blushing.

Panic flashed through her mind, and she impulsively considered fleeing. Of course that would be about as sensible as Kent's tearing a cop's head off. Instead, she did the only thing she
could
do. She smiled. And that just made it worse, she thought.

“It's good to see you again, Lacy.” He shook his head, diverted his eyes. “I kept telling myself that the last thing I needed was a relationship so soon after Gloria's death. It hasn't even been three months, you know. But I realize now that I was wrong. I think I do need a relationship. A good friendship, without all the baggage that comes with romance. No strings, you know. And I see now that you can give me that friendship.”

He faced her. “Don't you think?”

To be honest, she didn't know what to think. Her head was still buzzing from that last heat wave. Was he saying he wanted nothing but a platonic relationship? Yes, and that was good. Wasn't it?

“Yes. It took me six months to get over John. Not
over,
over, of course. I don't think you ever get
over,
over. But to a point where I could see clearly. Some are faster healers. They're back on their feet in three or four months; some take a year. But all of us need someone to stand by. I don't think I could have made it if I hadn't found God.”

If he had been eating a cherry tomato, he might have choked on it at the comment. He coughed.

She ignored him. “Ultimately his is the only relationship that brings peace. I guess sometimes it takes a death to understand that.” Kent's eyes were following the rim of his coffee cup. “But, yes, Kent. You're right. It is good to have a friendship that is completely unpretentious.”

He nodded.

They talked for another hour, telling for the first time their own stories of loss. Lacy's mind kept wandering back to that heat wave that had fallen over them, but in the end she settled herself with the reasoning that these things happened to people who had walked through the valley. They lost their sensibilities at times.

By the time they shook hands and bid each other a good night, the clock's fat hand was past the midnight hour. By the time Lacy finally fell asleep, it was nudging the second morning hour. Surely it was well after Kent had arrived home and fallen comfortably asleep in his big, empty house, she thought.

She was wrong.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

HELEN JOVIC lived roughly eight miles from Kent's Littleton suburban neighborhood. Depending on traffic the crosstown jaunt took anywhere between fifteen and twenty minutes in her old yellow Pinto. But today she wasn't in the Pinto. Today she was on Reeboks, and the walk stretched into a three-hour ordeal.

It was the first time her walking actually took her anywhere. The minute she'd stepped off her porch, with the sun starting to splash against the Rockies, she'd felt an urge to walk west. Just west. So she'd walked west for over an hour before realizing that Kent's house lay directly in her path.

The silent urge arose in her gut like steel drawn to a powerful magnet. If Pastor Madison had been correct, she figured her normal pace carried her along at an easy three miles per hour. But now she pushed it up to four. At least. And she felt no worse off for the wear, if indeed there was any wearing going on in these bones of hers. She certainly did not feel fatigue. Her legs tingled at times as if they were thinking of falling asleep or going numb, but they never actually slowed her down.

Three days earlier she had tried walking through her eight hours and she had finally fatigued at the ten-hour mark. The energy came like manna from heaven, daily and just enough. But she had never felt the energy directing her anywhere except along the streets of her own neighborhood.

Now she felt as a salmon must feel when it strikes out for the spawning ground. Her daughter's Reeboks fit perfectly. She had already tossed her own pair in the garbage and switched to a black pair that Gloria had favored. Now she strutted down the sidewalk sporting black shoes and white basketball socks. Once she had looked at herself in the full-length hall mirror and thought the getup looked ridiculous with a dress. But she didn't care—she was a dress person. Period. She would leave fashion statements to the fools who gave a rat's whisker about such matters.

Helen entered the street leading to Kent's home and brought her focus to the two-story house standing at the far end. Not so long ago she had referred to the home as Gloria's home. But now she knew better. Her daughter was skipping across the clouds up there, not hiding behind pulled drapes in that stack of lumber. No, that was
Kent'
s house.

That's your house
.

The thought made Helen miss a step. She turned her mind to praying, ignoring the little impulse.

Father, this man living in that house is a selfish, no-good hooligan when you get right down to it. The city is crawling with a hundred thousand people more worthy than this one. Why are you so bent on rescuing him?

He didn't answer. He usually didn't when she complained like that. But of course she had no reason to hide her suspicions from God. He already knew her mind.

She answered herself.
And what about you, Helen? He is a saint compared to what you once were.

Helen turned her thoughts back to prayer.
But why have you drawn me into this? What could you possibly want from my silly walking? Not to complain, but really it is rather incredible.
She smiled.
Ingenious, really. But still, you could certainly do as well without this exercise, couldn't you?

Again he didn't answer. She had once read C. S. Lewis's explanation for why God insists on having us do things like pray when he already knows the outcome. It is for the experience of the thing. The interaction. His whole endeavor to create man centers around desire for interaction. Love. It is an end in itself.

Her walking was like that. It was like walking with God on Earth. The very foolishness of it made it somehow significant. God seemed to enjoy foolish conventions. Like mud on the eyes, like walking around Jericho, like a virgin birth.

She mumbled her prayer now. “Okay, so he is worthy of your love. Go ahead, dump some of the stuff over him. Let's have this over with. Lay him out. Drop him. You could do that. Why don't you do that?”

He still wasn't answering.

She closed her eyes momentarily.
Father, you are holy. Jesus, you are worthy. Worthy to receive honor and glory and power forever. Your ways are beyond finding out.
A tingle ran through her bones. This was actually happening, wasn't it? She was walking around physically empowered by some unseen hand. At times it seemed unbelievable. Like . . . like walking on water.

You are God. You are the Creator. You have the power to speak worlds into existence, and I love you with all of my heart. I love you. I really do
. She opened her eyes.
I'm just confused at times about the man who lives in that house,
she thought.

That's your house, Helen.

The inner voice spoke rather clearly that time, and she stopped. The house loomed ahead, three doors down, like an abandoned mortuary, haunted with death. And it was not her house. She did not even want the house.

That's your house, Helen.

This time Helen could not mistake the voice. It was not her own mind speaking. It was God, and God was telling her that Kent's house was actually hers. Or was meant to be.

She walked forward, rather tentative now. High above, the sun shone bright. A slight breeze pressed her dress against her knees. Not a soul was in sight. The neighborhood looked deserted. But Kent was in his house, behind those pulled blinds. The silver car parked in the driveway said so.

“Is that my Lexus too?” The corner of her mouth twitched at her own humor. Of course, she did not want the Lexus, either.

This time God answered.
That's your house, Helen.

And then she suddenly knew what he meant. She stopped two doors down, suddenly terrified. Goodness, no! I could never do that! The walking is one thing, but
that?

Helen turned on her heels and walked away from the house. Her purpose here was over. At least for the day. An unsteadiness accompanied her strides now.
That's your house; that's your house
. That could mean anything.

But it didn't mean anything. It meant only one thing, and she had the misfortune of understanding exactly the message.

Helen walked for an hour, mumbling and begging and praying. Nothing changed. God had said his piece. Now she was saying hers, but he was not speaking anymore.

She was on her way back home, less than an hour from her house—her
real
house—before she found some peace over the matter. But even then it was only a thimbleful. She began to pray for Kent again, but it was not as easy as it had been on the first part of the trip.

Things were about to get interesting. Maybe crazy.

THE SECOND real bump in Kent's road came two days later, on Wednesday morning, on the heels of the cop-in-the-bookstore bump.

The day started out well enough. Kent had risen early and shaved clean to the bone. He smiled and nodded a greeting to several tellers on his way through the lobby. He even made eye contact with Sidney Beech on his way in, and she smiled. A sexy smile. Things were most definitely returning to normal. Kent whistled down the hall and entered the Information Systems suite.

Betty sat in typical form, tweezers in hand. “Morning, Betty.” Kent forced a smile.