Part 11 (2/2)
”Brett, have you heard?” said Don Anderson.
Brett was staring at Matt when he replied, ”Tell me.”
Jack McKinstry told him secondhand, then Norman told him almost secondhand, prefacing it with his firsthand account of what happened in the laundromat. When Brett finally made his way up to Matt Kiley, Matt saw him coming, stepped out from the counter, and did a little jig. The crowd went crazy.
Matt told Brett his story. He'd shared it countless times by now, but it hadn't gotten old and he hadn't gotten tired of it. Neither had the visitors pressing in close to hear it again.
As Brett listened, he almost felt foolish coming in here as a cop with handcuffs and a gun. Just moments ago, he was on a case, hoping for a lead in catching the hitchhiking con man. Now, as he heard Matt Kiley's account and saw him standing, even dancing, the hitchhiker's words took on a whole new meaning. Brett remembered them clearly, and now had to steady himself against the counter as he muttered, ”My G.o.d. . . .”
”Yes, exactly!” several responded.
By now Sally was crying. ”You don't understand . . . I need him. . . .”
JIM BAYLOR was an ex-marine in his forties with a crew cut he'd kept ever since boot camp and a low, growly voice befitting a former drill sergeant. He wasn't a tall man, but he was built like a solid, immovable rock and had a personality to match. Right now he was a surveyor, but he'd been several other things over the years: draftsman, carpenter, mechanic, plumber, electrician, painter, oil well worker. His garage workshop was worth visiting because he still had every tool he'd ever used in all those trades. He could build a house with the carpentry tools that hung on the wall. He could fix any vehicle with the automotive tools and specialized gizmos he kept on the workbench and in a big red metal cabinet on wheels-things like a wheel puller, a spring compressor, and a spark plug wire puller. In case anyone in Antioch needed an oil well fixed, he still had adjustable wrenches big enough to turn a tree. If nothing else, he could tell you how long, wide, tall, or deep something was because he always carried a twenty-five-foot Stanley tape measure clipped to his belt.
Jim was a hunter who stuffed his own trophies and had a room full of them. He was a storyteller who could share his marine, hunting, building, plumbing, and Alaskan oil adventures for hours, never raising his voice but keeping you enthralled from beginning to end. He enjoyed his friends, liked to get involved in projects that helped others, and wasn't much of a whiner. He was a reasonable, logical kind of guy.
And he was married to Dee Baylor.
As near as I can recall his account, he first met Dee when she was tending bar at a tavern near the marine base. She was as crusty and feisty as he was in those days and could hold her own in any stare-down or shouting match with any grunt or officer, she didn't care. She won Jim's heart by showing an interest in him to the exclusion of every other man who'd come through the place- something he took as a real compliment. He always liked her because, though he could scare most anyone else, he couldn't scare her. They were right for each other.
He insisted they still were. He loved her. But I could tell by the way he kept finding excuses to come over and talk-well, work on something and talk while we were at it-that he was troubled and perplexed.
Today the excuse was the shelves I wanted to hang in the bedroom. I needed more s.p.a.ce for books, I had a small aquarium I wanted to put back into service, and I still had a portable CD player sitting on the floor. My landlord was going to deduct the cost from my rent, so I went for the idea. So did Jim. All I had to do was mention those shelves and he made plans to come over.
So we worked, finding studs, drilling holes, setting molly screws, and hanging shelves, and as we worked, we talked.
”Kinda glad the weather's cleared up,” he said, sweeping my newly purchased stud finder along the wall. ”At least now I get to see more of her.” He looked at me suddenly, as if he'd said something amiss. ”No offense, now, right, Travis?”
”No, no offense.”
”I mean, Christianity's fine, I've got nothing against it. We've talked about that.”
”Sure.”
”And I didn't say anything when she started speaking in tongues over our dinner every night. I didn't want to get in her way if it meant so much to her.” He found the stud and made a small pencil mark on the wall. ”And when she started dancing and whirling around, I didn't say anything. She doesn't do it at home that much, so I don't have to worry about my floor joists. I, uh . . .” His voice trailed off and he drilled some holes.
”Yeah?” I prodded.
”I think maybe this cloud thing might be better for her. She might be getting-don't tell her I said this-she might be getting too old and too heavy to be falling down all the time. You ought to see the bruises she used to come home with.” He added quickly, ”Now I know it wasn't you knocking her down.”
”No, it wasn't me.” All I ever did was pray for her, usually during our Sunday morning service, often at midweek Bible study. She might have a cold, need some guidance from the Lord, or just need a refres.h.i.+ng in the Spirit. It didn't matter. Whenever I took her hand or rested my hand on her head to pray for her, I wouldn't get out more than one or two sentences before my hand would be touching thin air and she would be on her way to the floor, ”slain in the Spirit.” Sometimes a friend would be there to catch her and at least soften her landing. Sometimes she'd go over with nothing but the floor to stop her and you could hear her bones. .h.i.tting the hardwood. Nothing could stop her. I once asked her not to fall down, but she went down anyway, unable to resist the power of G.o.d. The rest of the congregation had gotten fairly used to it- sometimes the ushers would just step over her when they had to collect the offering-but it often seemed a little weird to new visitors. Adrian Folsom fell occasionally, especially if Dee fell first; Blanche never did. Anyway, I knew better than to think it was from any great anointing on my part.
Jim threw up one hand in resignation. ”She said it was G.o.d that knocked her over.”
”That could be.” It was a safe thing to say. I wasn't one to limit G.o.d, but right now I had a real att.i.tude about the subject, so I had to be careful.
”But now she's watching the clouds and that's better. The worst she can get is a kink in her neck. Have you met that new pastor yet?”
”Kyle Sherman?”
”Yeah.”
”We've met.”
”What do you think of him?”
I had to skip over the first thoughts that came to mind and find some nicer ones. ”He's young, but he's honest and means well. I think he'll be all right.”
”Haven't met him yet, but I know I'm going to. One of these days he's going to be knocking on my door, trying to rope me in.” We were ready to hang a shelf on the newly installed brackets. We each took one end and lifted it into place. Nice fit. ”I've already got my wife leaving me little notes and Scripture verses on the fridge and the bathroom mirror. But if she thinks I'm going to start talking in Chinese and dancing around and falling on the floor, she's got another think coming.”
”How about watching the clouds?”
He threatened me with his hammer, and we laughed.
”Did I ever tell you about Al Sutter's combine?” he asked.
”You were going to.”
He launched into a tale about Al Sutter's nephew trying to run Al's thirty-year-old combine, and then we talked about a Cadillac he was thinking of restoring. The gospel came up again after that, with a few questions about Jesus and whether he ever went fis.h.i.+ng, which got us on the subject of fis.h.i.+ng, which led to the fish and game laws, which led to some political discussion, which got us back to religion again, somehow. This was Jim's way, like putting cream and sugar in a cup of coffee, and it worked for both of us. As long as we kept the serious subjects mixed in with easier ones and had some work to do, we felt comfortable and got along fine.
By the time he left that afternoon, we both felt a little better and I had a beautiful new set of shelves.
And then the phone rang.
”h.e.l.lo?”
The voice was familiar, but quiet, subtle. ”I hope I'm not disturbing you. I waited until your guest left.”
I could feel a tease in that last sentence, as if he wanted me to look around and wonder where he was. I didn't bite. ”You didn't finish mowing John's lawn.”
”Tell him to be patient. I'll get around to it next time.”
I sat on the couch, taking only a quick sideways glance out the window. I didn't see him, but that didn't surprise me. ”I suppose you know what's been going on in town these last few days.”
”It's been exciting. I've enjoyed it.”
”And I take it you're the one responsible.”
He chuckled. ”Hey, I'll take credit for some of it, but people seeing my face in the mildew of a shower or a hedge, that's absurd.”
”What about the clouds?”
”No, no, that's pa.s.se. It's been done.”
”Well, hasn't there been a weeping crucifix before?”
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