He wanted to be a Baptist in honor of his grandfather, and maybe one day a Baptist preacher, though his father would never heed anything a Baptist had to say—the Baptists with their covenantal ways were anathema to Matthew Kavanagh.
But he’d been thinking. Maybe if he was a priest, he could save his father’s soul. Maybe God would let him say what his father needed to hear, and everything would be different.
His heart beat dully as he took the rector’s hand and they shook.
It was done. Something irreversible was done…
He knelt in the pew his family had so long ago occupied—on the center aisle, gospel side, five rows back, with a view of the organ loft.
His heart was a stone; his shoulders ached as if he’d been heaving bricks over a wall. Clearly, he was tensing himself against whatever the Henry Winchester business might be, and the fear of running into someone who would dredge up the Martin Houck affair and call out the dogs all over again.
He put his arms on the back of the pew before him and rested his forehead on the cushion they made. The worst thing about this trip, really, was the fear it stirred in him. In truth, he seemed to be tending what C. S. Lewis called a “nursery of fears,” all of which he managed to deny very ably at home.
At home, he was the priest everybody loved, the fine fellow who made everyone feel good about themselves, when so often he felt only the misery of his own damage and derangement. He had even been called “perfect” on a couple of occasions, which had embarrassed and infuriated him.
At home, there were no Henry Winchesters—everything and everybody, give or take a few, were consistently proven factors.
At home, no one knew about or would ever allude to the trial that so effectively wounded his mother and burdened the family with shame and unknowing.
But for all that, Holly Springs was precisely where he belonged right now. He’d been journeying for seventy years to this place, this moment, this pew. It was God’s plan.
Enough, then. He’d come in to pray, seeking peace from the only one who could hear his heart and not despise him for it, the only one who could see him as a worm, yes, but love him still, because he’d been so fashioned that the hard chrysalis would soon shatter and the wings unfold, and he would ascend again and soar.
Chances were, the incident surrounding the trip to the country would turn out to be innocuous. The important thing was that he had come back at last to honor the dead. He would spend time at the cemetery tomorrow, clipping grass around the stones, watering and fertilizing the roses, getting settled in himself for the trip home.
He heard the front door open and close. Someone entered the narthex and walked into the nave. Whoever it was stood at the rear of the nave for a time before moving along the carpeted aisle and sitting in a pew directly across from him. He could tell it was a man by his movements, his walk; and he was a heavy smoker—he smelled it in his clothes.
He struggled to refocus his attention, asking God for the grace to take his mind off his mewling introspection. But he couldn’t focus. The close presence of the person across the aisle was agitating and unwelcome, as if some grave urgency had devoured the air. And why would anyone sit so near when the nave was as empty as the Easter tomb?
Aggravated, he raised his head and looked directly into the eyes of Jim Houck.
He had no idea what to say. He rose abruptly from the kneeler and sat in the pew as if awakened by force from sleep. Why are you here? What do you want from me? But he said nothing.
“Do you think your old man did it?”
He was stunned by Houck’s directness. The well-worn legion of stock answers flashed through his mind, and none of them, not one, would any longer suffice. He looked at the son of Martin Houck, to whom he was, in many ways, as connected as he’d ever been to Rosie or Tommy.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Many times I’ve wondered.”
“You can quit wonderin’.”
“What do you mean?”
“Daddy told me th’ truth before he died.”
Wait, he almost said, maybe I don’t want to know the truth.
“He hated your daddy’s guts, an’ when he slipped an’ fell, he said he knew before he hit th’ ground what he’d do—he’d nail Matthew Kavanagh for pushin’ ’im.”
He uttered an involuntary sound as if struck from behind; tears came on a wave of feeling that nearly overswept him. He stretched out his right hand, reaching for something, though he didn’t know what, and Jim Houck took it and gripped it as if he, too, were reaching for something but didn’t know what.
“My mother.” He couldn’t speak beyond that utterance.
Embarrassed, Jim Houck released his hand and stood in the aisle, awkward.
“I’m sorry about your mother. Sorry about your whole family. My daddy was in such rotten financial shape, he figured he had nothin’ to lose by accusin’ your ol’ man. You prob’ly know your daddy had a few enemies his ownself; I guess my daddy thought th’ judge an’ jury could be persuaded.
“I’ve never done much of anything right, but I knew it was right for me to tell you th’ truth an’ I didn’t see any reason to beat around th’ bush. I came up to Hill Crest th’ other day to tell you, but I chickened out an’ ended up actin’ like a hard-ass.”
He was a piñata, struck and shattered, the pieces still falling.
“All these years knowin’ th’ truth an’ knowin’ how bad it was for your people. I remember your gran’daddy, he treated me like I was somebody, he didn’t hold th’ lawsuit against me, he said it had nothin’ to do with me. He was what I wish I could be, but that ain’t gon’ happen.”
His mother’s suffering over that costly and humiliating incident had been for nothing.
Jim sat again in the pew across the aisle. “When Daddy lost th’ case, I was dog crap in this town. I hated your guts an’ your family’s guts for years. Even after Daddy told me th’ truth, I hated you because that’s what I was used to doin’, it took a long time to break m’self of that. I thought a lot about gettin’ even. If I’d known where to find you, I’d’ve burnt your barn down if you had one.”
“Never had one,” he said, ironic.
“They say a dog returns to its vomit, an’ here I am, back in th’ town I said I’d never set foot in again. Tryin’ to figure out my life, what th’ deal is, where I fit in. Knowin’ what really happened forced me to think along lines I’d never thought along, you might say. Seemed like if I could get one thing right, if I could tell you th’ truth, it’d be kind of like dominoes—th’ other stuff would start fallin’ in place.”
“Thank you for telling me.” He blew his nose, using his last handkerchief. The jury had found Matthew Kavanagh innocent, but his own son, his own wife, even Louis had in their hearts found him guilty.
“Why’d you come back?” asked Jim.
“Maybe this is why.” He was surprised that he felt no acrimony toward Jim Houck; they had both been imprisoned by a lie and they’d both served their time. Enough of accusation and anguish, it was done.
“I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again, then you showed up in Holly Springs. I guess that’s what you call coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” he said.
“Whatever.”
“God did this. He brought me back, and look what he had waiting: something I would never have known if I hadn’t done what I dreaded most. I believe he has something for you, too.” He hesitated, needing to be certain he meant what he wanted to say. “I’ll pray for you, Jim.”
“I could use it.”
They sat for a moment, silent.
“How about right now?” he said. “Up there.” He gestured toward the altar rail.
“I don’ know.”
“Painless,” he said.
“Painless?” said Jim. “I’ll take painless.”
THIRTEEN
He was at Frank’s place fifteen minutes ’til one.
“Tell me about Henry Winchester.
”
“Nice guy. Comes in now an’ again, likes meatloaf.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Usually goes home with a chicken-liver take-out, side of green limas, an’ coleslaw. Pretty quiet.”
“That’s all you know?”
“Started comin’ in a while back, I can’t hardly say when.”
“What does he look like?”
“Black guy. Light skin, dresses good, talks educated. Keeps ’is shoes shined, you could see yo’ face in ’is shoes. He one of th’ people you lookin’ fo’?”
“Yes, actually. A glass of tea, please. Unsweetened.” He foraged in his pocket for his wallet.
“Ain’t got unsweetened, ain’t gon’ git unsweetened. Can’t sell it.”
“You’re holdin’ on to the nation’s record for the most cases of diabetes?”
Frank laughed. “We’re holdin’ on, thass right.”
“Full bore, then. And give me a quick salad with oil and vinegar, no onions.”
“Got your oil an’ vinegar on th’ table.”
“And a piece of that lady’s pie. Blackberry.” Hallelujah.
“You loosenin’ up out here in ol’ Miss’ippi.”
He grinned. “The heat.” He liked being in a place where everything from forgetfulness to homicide might be blamed on the heat. “What does Henry Winchester do?”
“Railroad conductor. Th’ boss of th’ whole choo-choo. Seem like he retired a while back.”
“How old?”
“Late fifties, sixty, maybe.”
“You get that good rain last night?”
“My gauge said an inch and a quarter.”
He sat in the first booth, gulping his food and keeping an eye on the parking lot.
Five ’til one. Henry Winchester was early, too. When the blue Buick rolled in, he felt suddenly tentative, like a child going off to first grade. He wiped his mouth and dialed his wife.
“Here I go. Love you.”
“I’m praying,” she said. “Love you back.”
When he reached the blue Buick, Henry was standing by the passenger door. Six feet tall, on the slender side, kind eyes. He wore a sport coat and tie, as if to say this wasn’t a casual thing he was doing.
“Mr. Winchester?”
“Reverend Kavanagh?”
They shook hands. Henry’s grip was firm, his palm mildly damp.
“May I drive us, Reverend? Or would you like to follow me? I’ll sure be glad to drive us.”
He’d wondered about taking off to an unknown destination with a total stranger, but hadn’t figured out what to do about it.
“You know the way,” he said. “We’ll give my Mustang a rest, it’s hot on the heels of antiquity. How long do you think we might be?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I’ll be ready to bring you back anytime you say.”
Henry opened the passenger door before he could do it himself. As he got in, he eyed Henry Winchester’s shoes. Buffed to the max.
The Buick was old but clean, and the leather interior freshly polished; the surface of the seat squeaked as he sat down.
“The town looks good,” he said, attempting small talk as they drove around the square and headed south. The air conditioner roared against the escalating temperature.
“Coming along.”
“Frank tells me you’re a railroad conductor.”
“Yes, sir. I was.”
“Retired?”
“Pretty recently. You can retire from the railroad at age sixty.”
A bruise on Henry’s right hand. One on the right side of his face, near the chin. He realized he was staring and averted his eyes to the highway.
“Good rain last night,” he said.
“Yes, sir. Good rain.”
He perceived he wasn’t the only one who was going off to first grade for the first time. “Do you garden?”
“Just a little patch. I was glad to get the rain.”
“What are you growing?”
“Corn. Potatoes. Bush tomatoes. Cabbage. A few salad greens. I like to wilt th’ greens.”
“I know wilted greens, all right. Have to have cornbread with wilted greens.”
“Yessir.” Henry glanced at him. “Sure do.”
“My wife and I garden, but no vegetables. Not enough room unless we tear down the garage, which we’ve considered a time or two.”
He checked the needle. Holding steady on fifty-five; Henry concentrating on the road. They drove without talking for several minutes, with only the roar of the air conditioner breaking their silence.
“So, you like the trains.”
“I like th’ trains, sure do. Got trains in my blood. Went to college, thought I might go into business. But th’ trains…they’ll call you.”
“Frank says the conductor is the boss of the whole choo-choo.”
Henry laughed a little. “Tried to be.”
“I don’t know much about trains. Took the Panama Limited to Jackson one time. I was a boy. Always meant to do it again.”
“I worked the City of New Orleans for many years. It was a good run.”
“Never got tired of the same run?”
“Suppose I should have, but no, the passengers kept things interesting for me. I always liked meeting new people, observing their attitude when they came on board, and how the trip might have changed…Didn’t mean to go on.”
“Please go on. If there’s anything I like in this world, it’s a story. My grandpa was a great storyteller. How the trip might have changed…?”
“Changed their lives in some way.”
“Ah.”
“People feel affection for trains,” said Henry.
“Yes, I think you’re right. A link to the past, perhaps.”
“Link is a good word. Trains also link people to each other. Everybody today seems hungry for a sense of connection.”
“Hungry, yes.” Jim Houck. T Ray. He remembered Ray’s story about the basketball hoop, how the house where he grew up had vanished, all connections severed, as if it had never existed.
They were in the country now. Fields bordered the road; here and there, a house, an occasional horse grazing.
“May I ask if God called you to the priesthood?”
“I didn’t feel called in the usual sense, not in the beginning. In the beginning, I thought it was about being good, doing the right things, believing the right things. And, of course, it is about all that, but it really doesn’t work unless we’re in relationship with him. I was in my forties before God cracked open my heart and revealed himself to me and I surrendered my life to him. That was the breakthrough. Before that, I was merely a man with an agenda. After that, I was God’s man and it was his agenda. It changed everything.”
In a fleeting glance his way, he saw deep feeling in Henry’s eyes. “I was fourteen when I threw out my agenda and asked for his.”
“Fourteen. Saved yourself a world of trouble.”
Henry nodded. “I had good teachers.”
They rode in silence. Flat terrain. Temperature rising. Henry’s clock wasn’t working; he checked his watch and loosened his collar. The knowledge of his father’s innocence had rolled something away from the tomb of his chest, but the guilt of having convicted him was rolling it back. He prayed for forgiveness, and the grace to forgive himself.
They turned right at a mailbox bearing the name WINCHESTER and drove along a narrow dirt road through pine woods.
In the clearing at the end of the road stood an unpainted house, fastidiously kept and striking in appearance. Part of the yard was swept and bare; he hadn’t seen a swept yard since boyhood. An enormous car with tail fins was parked by the porch.
“My sister lives down the road and has a beauty shop in her home; she parks her car here to leave space for her customers.”
“Good plan.”
Henry switched off the motor and dropped his hands into his lap, looking suddenly spent. Bruising also on the left hand.
“Will we be go
ing inside?”
“Yes, sir. We will.”
“Mr. Winchester, I admit I’m not one for surprises. Is there anything I should know before we go in?”
Henry slowly shifted on the seat and looked at him; the gravity of his expression was unsettling. “You’ll be told something you may not want to hear, and asked to do something you may not wish to do. I’d like you to know that none of this was my idea.”
“Whose idea was it?”
“My mother’s.”
“Who is your mother?”
“Peggy Lambert Winchester.”
The feeling wasn’t unlike diving off a board and striking the water on his belly.
“My mother wants to see you. It’s something she’s prayed about for a long time. It’s the most important thing in her life now, to see you again.”
Peggy. He managed, finally, to ask a civil question. “Her health?”
“Scheuermann’s kyphosis.”
“I’ve known a couple of parishioners with that form of kyphosis. Can be a good bit of pain associated with it.”
“Other than the kyphosis and keeping her sugar down, she’s in fine health. Mentally, she’s sharp and quick, with a memory far better than mine.”
“How old?”
“Gaining on ninety.”
“Ah.” He couldn’t find anything else to say.
“My mother has sacrificed greatly for me. I would do anything for her. So when she started asking God to show us how to find you, I was bound to help in any way I could.”
“Well, then.” He opened the passenger door; the humidity struck him full-force.
“We didn’t tell you beforehand, Reverend; she was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
“I see.” But, of course, he didn’t see.
FOURTEEN
They stepped beyond the drenching heat into the shade of a darkened room.
The windows were heavily draped; only a ribbon of light streamed across the floor. The air was sweet with the scent of coffee and cooked apples.