Finding Boaz

  With a little effort she was able to break the suction seal that had formed around the car seat from the seat itself. There she found old French-fries and crumbs and other bits and pieces from unidentifiable sources. She grabbed the closest napkin she could find and began flinging the bits of fries and other detritus on to the parking lot. A sharp movement caught her eye, but not fast enough to stop the load of particles from hitting Duncan's legs. She felt her face flame with embarrassment.

  "Oh, I am so sorry!" She squelched her first instinct, which was to run over and brush him off with the napkin she had shredded trying to get the seat clean. Instead she just stood there helplessly while Duncan brushed himself off.

  "It's all right." He looked up and smiled at her.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She turned back to the seat and wiped it down with a wet-nap.

  His shadow loomed over her. "Got any more fries in there? I'm starving."

  She rolled her eyes at him as she stood up, and there they were again—much too close. "No, I think that about does it for the fries." She pushed past him, went around to the driver's side, and got in.

  Duncan barely fit in the front seat of Abby's little car. He adjusted the seat, strapped himself in and started to laugh.

  Chapter 24

  Duncan leaned against his truck and watched Abby drive away. A laugh from deep inside erupted. It was slow coming on, but now he knew she was the one. It was the fries under the seat that got him. He would have been out of the way if he hadn't been following so close. He had paid no attention to where they were going. He had been thinking of what a night onboard his new boat with her would be like. There was no one in the world like her, no one that made him feel this way. You have to be careful what you ask for, he told himself, you just might get it. He drove on autopilot as Abby filled his thoughts.

  Passing the Gordons’ house brought him out of his reverie. Oswald Gordon. Sour old man. He would have to try again. He owed it to his father, Mr. Gordon and Max. Perhaps Gordon would listen to him this time. Perhaps he could forgive before he died. He would call. His mother probably still had the number. She had been friends with Pat Gordon for years before the incident. He would call first to ask permission, and then he would go see the old man.

  He kicked himself again for the damage he had done to his family. How painful it must have been for his mother to be separated from her friend because of him. If he had learned the lesson from this first big mistake, John never would have died.

  Max and Duncan had been fast friends since kindergarten. It helped that Ossy worked for Duncan's father at the dock. The boys were thrown together at school and at church. They did everything together: they were acolytes, they rode bikes, they raced against each other in the soap box derby. Then, at seventeen, in their senior year of high school, they went out in Ossy Gordon's car with a baseball bat and booze. Joy riding and bashing in as many mailboxes as they could get away with had become their new hobby.

  It was the third Saturday night of their spree. Max was driving. Duncan was hanging out of the window. They were driving fast down Longstreet, a winding rural road. They had hit six mailboxes by the time they reached Hermit Hogan's.

  Hermit Hogan lived on a dirt farm littered with falling barns and an old homestead going to seed. Hogan never came out except to feed his dogs and go to the grocery store. He had a big red mailbox ripe for picking.

  He must have heard them coming on that quiet rural road where you can hear your neighbor gossiping a mile down if the wind is still. Duncan's arms were still ringing from the first six he'd smashed when they came up on Hermit's. Duncan hung out the window, bat at the ready. Before he could swing, a shot pinged off the top of the car. Duncan ducked inside.

  "Go! He's shootin' at us—" Max drove up to the next driveway and backed up and went back to Hermit's.

  "What are you doin'?!"

  Hogan was still on his porch, standing in the yellow light of a bug bulb, peering into the night, the shotgun at rest in the crook of his arm. Max got out and put his hands up in the air, in surrender. Hogan shot him. Max hit the ground. The top of his arm was torn off. Duncan belly-crawled to the driver's-side door. Hogan was still shooting. Duncan grabbed Max by the belt buckle and pulled him into the car. Once Max was inside Duncan peeled out of there and drove straight to the hospital. The police were called from there.

  Max lost the use of his left arm forever, and Ossy Gordon held Duncan responsible for the ruination of his son's life. If Duncan had not talked Max into it, good little Max would never have been harmed. Max knew otherwise.

  He and Duncan remained friends, but Max changed the course of his life. He figured he could have died that night and the Lord must have wanted him alive. So he got training, and after college, he went off to Ecuador as a missionary. They hadn't seen each other since high school graduation, but that was going to change soon. Max was getting married in a couple of months and he was coming home on furlough.

  Chapter 25

  Abby lay in her bed Wednesday night full of dread. She had fallen for Duncan MacLeod. Tomorrow she would start avoiding him at all costs. No more walks; no more lunches on the bench outside. She pictured him walking with her and holding her hand. They had laughed and talked. She laughed again at the sound of his brogue.

  "'Tis me tartan, lass..."

  She couldn't remember a time like that with Brad. He was always on about the way things looked. What people thought. How he was going to get ahead. Her elation began to fade, so she turned her thoughts back to Duncan. But the pure joy was lost. He and Chloe on the back of his truck dangling their legs. He seemed to understand that it was simple to love a child. They only want your attention...and a little time.

  She would have to find a new job. She couldn't possibly work that closely with him and stay away. On the other hand, the benefits were good, and she had no other prospect at hand. She would just have to steel herself. Obviously he liked her a little. She would just have to make sure that it didn't go any further.

  She wondered if her mother had found out anything. Maybe there was no deep, sinister past, and Helen had gotten the whole thing mixed up with someone else. After all, it had been a long time ago. Maybe this would all clear up for the best, and her heart was on the right track. Maybe the best was that she and Duncan would be married and live happily ever after.

  Not likely, she told herself.

  She drifted to sleep dreaming of different scenarios where Duncan was exonerated leaving him free for her.

  Her mind worked so tirelessly at the task that she did not realize she had fallen asleep. A loud pounding on the door woke her. The big red numbers on her clock said 3:00 a.m. She hesitated. If it was Brad, she wasn't letting him in. Wrapping a robe around herself, she went to the door.

  "Who is it?" She spoke through the wooden door. She was glad that the grids were secure on her windows.

  "It's me—Ruth."

  Abby looked through the peephole. It was Ruth. She looked out the window. There was no one else there, so she opened the door. The glass was between them.

  "I'm so afraid," Ruth said. She was back to the rag doll look. Her skin was the color of white muslin in the porch light.

  "Come in, but please keep your voice down. My daughter is sleeping."

  Ruth came in and looked around the room with her chin in the air. Abby was in no mood. She stepped into the hall and closed Chloe's door. She had to give up Duncan; she wasn't going to give up sleep.

  Tears dripped down Ruth's face.

  "What's going on?"

  "This is so hard." She took a deep breath.

  Abby waited. They were both standing in her kitchen. Abby felt her compassion kick in.

  So much for sleep, she thought. Lord give me wisdom, she prayed.

  "Have a seat. Want some tea?" she asked. Abby got down a box of tissues from the top of the fridge. Ruth pulled out a chair and sat down. She rested her hands in her lap.

  "No, thank you."

  Abby put w
ater on to boil. She could use some tea.

  "So what are you afraid of?" Abby sat across from Ruth with a steaming cup.

  "I'm an addict." Ruth began to pull on her fingers.

  She seemed to expect some kind of reaction, so Abby said, "OK."

  "I'm so filthy. I was trying to pray. Trying to talk to Charlie. I can't. I have been going to every meeting that I can find. I can't—" Her eyes welled up again rendering her speechless.

  Abby reached over and took one of her hands. Ruth pulled back.

  "You don't understand—"

  "I'll wait until you can tell me." Abby gently rested back in her chair.

  "They told us that we shouldn't... " Ruth hiccupped through another bout of tears. "Shouldn't... "

  Abby waited. Ruth took a deep breath and began again.

  "They told us that we shouldn't tell our families what we do. It's too gross for normal people—"

  She dabbed her eyes, "I thought maybe if I could talk to you then maybe I could get through this. I'm all alone."

  "I am right here."

  "I can't get my life back."

  "What do you mean? Doesn't Charlie want you?"

  "Yes." Ruth looked above Abby's head, focusing on something inward.

  "What have you done that's so bad? Stole a check from your mother?"

  "What? No—I didn't steal anything." Ruth got quiet. She turned her eyes downward to her hands.

  "What is it then?"

  "I'm a sex addict."

  Abby stopped cold. A what? Is this another so-called illness of the twenty-first century?

  Her spirit told her, Listen.

  "That's why I left Charlie and came to Mother's. I couldn't do it anymore. At the program they told us not to tell our families what we've done until we've been sober for a while. Make a good track record, you know. It's too disgusting for normal people. That's why I came here. I'm so alone. I need a real Christian to talk to. I know that you are the real thing. You and that boyfriend of yours."

  "What is a sex addict?"

  "It's like being an alcoholic. I have to have it."

  Abby's skepticism began to wane. "So you can't just stop?"

  "I don't know. I have done such awful things."

  "Like what?" Abby wasn't sure she really wanted to know.

  "I was OK for a little while after I was married to Charlie. But then I just needed to have a fix, you know. I went out with a guy in my office for a little while. But he got too serious, so I broke it off. Then there was another.

  "Finally, I wound up going downtown. I met some men down there. They wanted what I wanted. No strings. No names. I thought I was OK." She took a deep breath. "I could just slip down there, and no one would be the wiser. There was even this woman one time." A new wave of choking tears clogged up her speech.

  "A couple of weeks ago I went down at lunchtime, like I had been doing. I met someone I knew. He was from high school, only now he's a company executive. He knows I'm married to Charlie. I can't live like this. Charlie has talked about running for office. I can't…ruin..." Tears took over once again.

  Abby waited for Ruth to finish and waited for God to give her some words.

  "I've started this program before..."

  "So that's what you meant by being sober?"

  Ruth nodded adamantly.

  Abby got up and put her cold tea in the microwave to warm. Ruth seemed to be calming down a little. She retrieved another cup from the cabinet and made her a cup of tea as well.

  "First, I have to tell you that you are not too gross for God. Jesus covered all that with His sacrifice. Have you ever thought of what a physically brutal death Jesus suffered? "

  "Well, I don't think I ever imagined what it would be like to be nailed down, if that's what you mean."

  "I hadn't either until recently when I was reading Luke. It says Jesus was in agony as he prayed in the garden His sweat became like drops of blood. When I get nervous, I get cramps. It makes me think of that. He knew how hard it would be, but He did it for you." She paused for a sip of tea; Ruth's gaze never left her.

  "You know there aren't any deep, black sins and pale, white sins," she continued. "Sin is sin. Oh and by the way, He had to die for me, too." She noticed her Bible sitting on the table where she left it. "Were you able to find your Bible?"

  "Yes, Mother still had it."

  "Have you ever read the book of Ruth?"

  "That's the one about the woman who becomes queen?"

  "No, that's Esther. Ruth is one of my favorites because it's so romantic."

  "I really don't think—"

  "I don't mean in a sexual kind of way." Abby hesitated, but in her spirit she knew she was right on track. "You will have to bear with me. I don't mean to be preachy..." she continued.

  "Ruth was from Moab. She would have been the equivalent of a pagan today. She was married to a guy from Israel. After he died, she went back to Israel with her mother-in-law. Leaving the pagans she came from, she chose the God of Israel for herself. Once in Israel, she went to a relative's farm to glean."

  "Why?" Ruth asked.

  "Because that was how they fed the widows and the orphans. The owner of the field was called Boaz. When Ruth meets Boaz, he tells her that she may eat and drink of the food and water he has provided for his household. Then he tells the workers that they are to harvest some and leave enough for Ruth to glean. Throughout the harvest time he looks out for Ruth. Eventually, she goes to him and he marries her."

  Ruth remained silent.

  "The reason I love it so much is because Boaz is Jesus. You are Ruth. He loves you. He doesn't care where you come from or what you've been into. He loves you, and He forgives you."

  "It's so hard."

  "I know it is, but you can do it with the strength of Christ. Rely on it. I will be here to help you. Call me anytime. Just do what you have to do."

  "I have to call Charlie."

  "Do you want to call him now?"

  "No. I'll wait. Do you think it's OK not to tell him everything right now?"

  "You have to figure that out for yourself. But you do have to go to your meetings. Do what they tell you. You should come to church. You can't go back downtown."

  Light began to filter through the blinds. The cups of tea sat cold.

  "It's daylight," Abby yawned.

  "Oh, don't do tha—" Ruth let loose a large one of her own.

  "I have to get ready for work."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It's OK. You can call me anytime."

  It was five thirty by the time Abby gave Ruth a hug and closed the door behind her. It would not be wise for her to lie down at all. Instead, Abby got in the shower. It was going to be a long day.

  At least now that the boat was in, she would have some real work to do. She would drop off the cushions and buy some towels and other things. If she had to, she would make up odd jobs or someone might just find her asleep in a corner somewhere. Duncan had already chosen the fabric, so that made quick work at the upholsterer. She was able to get a swatch and that helped with the task of finding the matches for the other things. She bought thick, oversized towels for the V-berth and a couple of terry cloth robes, pillows and travel-sized toothbrushes and toothpaste for anyone who came without. Myriad other little details consumed the rest of her day. She arrived home with Chloe exhausted and looked forward to an early bedtime.

  At seven thirty the phone rang.

  It was Pat Gordon.

  "Abby, I've got to take Ossy to the hospital. He's having chest pains." The panic in her voice awakened Abby.

  "I'll be there."

  She called Helen who said she would gladly take Chloe. Grabbed her hospital identification card, and off she went to the emergency room.

  Abby wasn't sure if it was dread or fatigue that caused her feet to drag through the retractable doors of the emergency room. The room was quiet except for a news channel playing on a television suspended from the wall.

  She flashed her badge at
the triage nurse and asked where Ossy Gordon was.

  "Bed three."

  Ossy was sitting up on a gurney wearing a hospital gown and had a blue crocheted blanket across his legs. Pat stood next to the bed holding his hand.

  "Abby, you came," Pat said with weary smile.

  "My ticker's beatin' funny, Ab. This might be it."

  His eyes pierced her own, searching. Abby broke his gaze and stepped up to the foot of the bed.

  "Oh, you'll be all right, Ossy. Today's not your day."

  "The doctor said it's a-something fib." Pat's voice did not betray her fear, but her eyes did.

  "So you've seen him already. That's good." Abby reached for Pat's hand.

  "Seems they're not too busy."

  "They are going to use that electric machine to give him a jolt, and that is supposed to fix the irregular beat."

  The doctor, flanked by a couple of nurses, wheeled in a large machine with gray plastic paddles.

  Ossy's eyes filled with tears as he sought Pat. Abby backed out of the room. The force of Ossy's fear had startled her. She had only seen one death. A woman. But she had not been coherent. She had just slipped away. Ossy was fighting with everything God gave him to live.

  "Ready."

  Abby heard the machine give its jolt.

  Ossy had once been a little boy running around in Boy Scout pants catching frogs. He had worked hard and raised a family. Abby had seen pictures of Max and Martha. Ossy wasn't ready to die. Not like the old woman.

  Abby wiped the tears from her cheeks and took a deep breath. She was so tired.

  "Looks like that did it," she heard the doctor say.

  Chapter 26

  Duncan climbed the old steps to Mr. and Mrs. Gordon's house. It had been a long time since he had been there. The wooden door stood open and friendly as it always was during the day when he was growing up. The windows were open; Miss Pat was letting in the fresh air. Some things didn't change. He noticed the red paint smear, where he and Max had painted their pinewood derby cars, was still visible on the middle step on the left side.