The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story

  Bill was standing at the door, and he greeted Jack with a smile, shook his hand. “Jack,” he said. “Welcome.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Your family okay?”

  Bill nodded. “Thanks for asking.” Then he turned to welcome other visitors.

  The service had the same shape. Gospel hymns, welcome by the chairman of the deacons, the readings. Tom was again tasked with reading the gospel lesson, and he was visibly weakened. He took the steps one at a time, coughed for an interminable stretch before beginning to read about John baptizing Jesus.

  And then Jack was standing in the pulpit, looking out at the throng. Every pew filled to overflowing, every additional chair full, people standing in the back of the sanctuary and the back of the balcony, even people standing in the narthex. The camera was set up in the balcony, and untold numbers of people would see this now or later. Jack smiled.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning,” came the thunderous reply.

  “It’s nice to see you this morning,” he said. He smiled at Dennis, whose massive bulk was pinned in on either side by Mary and a young woman he didn’t know. “Welcome to Saint Paul’s.”

  He went on to talk about the story of the baptism of Jesus. Who was this John the Baptist? Why did Jesus want to be baptized?

  He noticed that Father Frank had slipped in and was standing in the back, a defiant tilt to his chin. I’m here, but I’m still angry.

  “I was talking to a friend this week,” Jack said, “and she said something that I’m sure will resonate with a lot of us. She said, ‘There’s nothing as powerful as knowing your father loves you.’

  “Mothers have to love us. They gave us life, nurtured us, fed us, sometimes from their very bodies. And, women, please believe me when I say we are grateful. I loved my mother and I know she loved me up to her dying day.”

  He blinked, looked down at his notes for a moment, looked back up.

  “But knowing your father loves you is different. Your father doesn’t have to love you. He didn’t give birth to us. The father has traditionally been outside the home working, hunting, farming, doing tax audits. We are separate from our fathers in ways we aren’t from our mothers.”

  He looked down at Tom, who was coughing quietly into a handkerchief. “Dad,” he said. “I’d like to tell a story about you. Can I have your permission?”

  Tom looked up, lowered the handkerchief. “Does this story make me look good?” he asked.

  Jack nodded.

  “Then by all means,” Tom said, to a ripple of laughter.

  Jack looked out at them, picked out familiar faces.

  “Those of you who live in Mayfield know that my father and I didn’t speak for many years. Maybe all of you know that. It has been widely reported,” he said, looking the news camera in its one eye. “I did something that disappointed my father, and in my anger and rebellion, I walked away from him for a decade. He was not a part of my life in any way, although he dearly wanted to be. He continued to reach out, even after I had pushed him to the side.

  “And then one day not so long ago, I was at the end of my rope. I had made the very public mistakes that all of you know, and I thought I was done for. You know, like in the movies: ‘You guys go on without me.’”

  Jack smiled, although this wasn’t very funny.

  “Without even asking forgiveness—I don’t think I’ve ever asked forgiveness,” he said suddenly, surprised by the revelation. He turned to Tom. “Dad, I am truly sorry. But without my even asking him for forgiveness, my father forgave me. When I had done nothing to deserve his love, he loved me.”

  Tom was nodding. It was true. Jack looked down at his notes again. He got his voice under control.

  “And when I thought I had no reason to go on, my father loved me enough to tell me that I was at the beginning of something, not at the end.”

  The church was quiet again, many people leaning forward in their seats.

  “And I thought to myself, if my earthly father shows this kind of love and forgiveness to his son, won’t God’s love and forgiveness be that much more amazing?

  “In this story of Jesus’s baptism, Jesus is not being baptized because he needs his sins forgiven—we believe that he was the one blameless and perfect human being. But he’s doing it on our behalf—on behalf of all of us whose humanity he shares. And he’s doing it so we too can understand that God loves us. Sinful, sad, broken as we may be, God loves us beyond reckoning.”

  He looked out at them, left, right, up into the balcony, and he knew they were ready for his conclusion. “When Jesus comes up out of the waters, his Father says to him, ‘This is my beloved son, and I am so pleased with him.’ My brothers and sisters, we should know that God is uttering the same words about each and every one of us. ‘This is my beloved child, and I love him, I love her, without reservation. No matter what.’”

  He raised his hand in blessing, and without his bidding them, they stood to their feet. He smiled out at them, and in that moment, he felt something he had never felt in Seattle—not pride, not excitement, but something deeper, something richer: an intense love for every person in that building.

  An intense sense of their holy connectedness.

  “Walk out those doors and into your life, secure in the knowledge that your Father loves you. And may the blessing of God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—be upon you this day and forevermore. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the congregation said in unison.

  Bill had asked Jack to serve communion. This Sunday, he and Bill dispensed the bread, and for what seemed a never-ending stream of people—Mary, his father, Dennis, Mrs. Calhoun, and finally, Father Frank—Jack tore a piece of the homemade bread, placed it in their hands, and told them, “This is the body of Christ, broken for you.”

  He was surprised at first how many people had tears in their eyes, but when he thought about it, it made sense. Is there a more tangible symbol of how much the Father loves us than the broken body of Christ?

  After church, he stood at the doors and greeted parishioners and visitors—mostly visitors. He was almost crushed by Dennis’s bear hug, and Father Frank shook his hand and told him it was a lovely sermon, “and true as well.”

  He seemed to have been forgiven, without even asking.

  The press conference was a short one. It was mostly Jack telling the media he was in Mayfield, he had work to do here, and they should probably go cover some other story. Surely some other priest or pastor had screwed up in the past week or so.

  “But, Jack, are you going back to Seattle?” was the question that came from every quarter, and many of those exiting the church or rubbernecking at the media circus leaned in to hear his answer.

  “I had a call from Seattle,” Jack said. “I have no immediate plans beyond tearing down somebody’s garage as soon as I can change out of my church clothes. And I’ll be welcoming my daughter for her first visit to Texas next week. That’s all I have to report.”

  The questions didn’t stop when he reached the Gobels’ house. Although they stood tearing shingles off a rickety carport that threatened to collapse beneath them at any moment, Sam Rodriguez would not stop asking, “We’ve got a good thing started here, hombre, you know?”

  “I know,” Jack kept saying. Out in the street, on the other side of the pile of building materials people had brought, on the other side of the growing block party, he could see that Randy Fields was seated in the police cruiser, his jaw clenched, shaking his head.

  “We’ve got a good thing started here, hombre.”

  Jack nodded. “I hope we get to keep on doing it.”

  The crowd was even bigger today—more folks from First Baptist had come. Although James Taylor was not one of them, Cameron was one of the high-school boys taking joy in swinging a sledgehammer to bring the old carport down, and Darla was dispensing what Jack assumed was good sweet iced tea over amongst the food and beverages. Someone had set up tables and chairs.

  ?
??Looks like some excellent food from the First Baptist ladies,” Warren Koenig told Jack, wiping his brow.

  The old carport came down with a roar like the death of a dinosaur to the cheers of the high-school boys who now had advanced degrees in demolition. One group of workers began framing the walls, another worked to secure base timber into the concrete, a third began unloading material for the new roof. Jack and Mr. Gonzalez had decided that as long as they had the labor—and they certainly did—and as long as the material was there—and people had brought more than enough—they would build the Gobels a proper garage with walls and everything.

  Too many men and boys had showed up for all of them to work at once, so Jack and Mr. Rodriguez kept teams at their tasks, cycled people on and off, supervised to make sure that the volunteers drove the nails straight and measured angles correctly.

  Jack kept one eye on Randy, who seemed eternally angry about this situation and just sat in his cop car, his lips perpetually pursed.

  When the walls went up and they started securing the roof supports, Jack noticed Randy on the phone. He was nodding, his jaw still clenched, and he seemed even angrier than before.

  People were shaking Jack’s hand, patting him on the back, but he sensed that many regarded him with a degree of either curiosity or suspicion. Jack’s remedy for that was to work as hard, or harder, than every man there. To carry the heaviest, to hammer the most—

  “This is not an Olympic event, boyo,” came the voice of Father Frank from behind as Jack stepped away to take a swig of Shiner and rest his aching muscles.

  “I know,” he said. “I know.”

  “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

  Jack turned around. “I think I do. To myself. To them. Maybe even to you.”

  “Did you even listen to the sermon you preached this morning?” Frank said. For the first time in days, he was smiling.

  “I’m not trying to earn something,” Jack said. He stopped. “That’s not why—”

  “I know,” Frank said, holding up his hand. “You’re doing this because it’s a good thing. The right thing.” He put his hands in the pockets of his jeans, kicked at something on the ground. “And I’m sorry, Jack. For my anger. If you choose to go, I think you’ll leave here a different person. But I hope you don’t go at all.”

  “Well,” Jack said, downing the last of his beer. “You’ve invested a lot of time and energy in this poor Protestant.”

  “Not nearly enough,” Frank said. “But I have hopes.”

  “Ouch,” Jack said. He looked around the yard—around the block. The walls were up, the roof spans going up, and the plywood, felt, and shingles for the roof would follow. It was amazing—the work of days done in an afternoon, just because everyone came together and pitched in.

  It was a community effort. He didn’t see his father—he’d probably gone home to rest—but many members of Saint Paul’s remained. He saw familiar faces from Saint Mary’s. Brother Raymond was enjoying what looked like a good Lutheran casserole, and for the first time, the largest group of workers here were from First Baptist, largely thanks to the teenage demolition engineers.

  Then Jack saw the one person from First Baptist he did not want here. James. He had parked down the block, was walking across a yard toward Darla with a grim expression on his face. Jack looked off to his right—Cameron had seen him too. His face had gone ashen.

  James came up behind Darla, who was laughing with three other women as they poured iced tea into red plastic cups. He took her elbow and turned her around, iced tea went everywhere, and although Jack couldn’t hear the words, he knew exactly what was happening.

  He had known James long enough not to be surprised by anything he did anymore.

  Come on. We’re going home.

  Let go of my arm.

  How can you embarrass me like this? Is that Cameron? James had looked across the yard, and Cameron appeared as though he wanted to melt into the earth.

  Jack took a step toward James and Darla. That’s as far as he got.

  Randy Fields had climbed out of his car and crossed the street. Now he was standing in front of Jack with one hand on his belt, where, Jack noticed with surprise, he wore an actual gun.

  “Jack Chisholm?” Randy said, and if his jaw had been tight before, it was white now.

  “You know it is, Randy,” Jack said. He got ready to step around him. James still had Darla by the arm, and she wrenched it from his grasp. Both of them were red-faced. One of the women was trying to step between them.

  “Jack, you’re under arrest.”

  “On what charge?” Father Frank demanded, and a panic seemed to rise from some folks nearby.

  “Disturbing the peace, assembly without a license, construction without a proper permit, unlicensed contractor,” he said, as though ticking off items on a list. Randy surveyed the yard—and he and Jack could both feel that the mood had become very ugly all of a sudden.

  “He’s not doing anything wrong,” Mr. Rodriguez said. “Nobody is, Randy.” He said the name “Randy” as though he were releasing a fart.

  Others stepped forward, gesturing, yelling, and Randy dropped his hand onto his gun.

  Jack raised his hands. “Please,” he said. “Please.”

  They stopped yelling, made a space for him to speak.

  “People get nervous when other people with hammers and power tools start waving them around.” Jack’s eyes pleaded with the ones nearby. “Please. Finish the job. We can work this out. I’ll go with you, Randy. The rest of you, stay and finish the Gobels’ carport.”

  “The rest of you need to disperse,” Randy said, although clearly his heart was not in it. He would take what he could get.

  “I’ll go with you,” Jack said to Randy. “Don’t push your luck.”

  Jack looked across the lawn. Darla and James were gone, although Cameron was in the angry mob still shadowing them at a distance. Jack turned to shoo them back to work. “We can work this out. You all—”

  The media had gotten wind of what was happening. They’d been lounging in their trucks—or eating casserole and tamales on the lawn.

  Now there were cameras everywhere as Jack was getting hauled off to jail.

  He shook his head. Public shame. Again. Fine. Whatever.

  “Y’all finish that job,” he called.

  “We’ll be right behind you, Twelve,” shouted Dennis, waving a hammer, and it scared even Jack. No wonder Randy thought he might have to shoot someone.

  “Finish the job,” Jack said. “That’s all that matters.”

  He turned to Randy. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  And with head held high, looking the media and everyone else right in the eyes, Jack performed his very first perp-walk to the Mayfield police cruiser.

  “I’ll bet I really don’t want to google myself now,” he muttered, as the door slammed next to him with a sound like the crack of doom.

  18.

  A jail cell is not the worst place in the world, Jack thought as he inspected his cell. Especially if you’ve got the place to yourself. The jail had three cells back here, but it was a Sunday afternoon, and no one else had done anything even remotely noteworthy.

  “Thank goodness some kids didn’t try to build an illegal tree house,” Jack shouted through the bars in the direction of the police office, but Randy offered no response.

  Jack was fine. Most of the comforts of home. He had a bed and a wooden chair, and in the corner were a toilet and sink. Like a Motel 6 without ESPN, he thought. Too bad about ESPN, actually. Another Sunday evening and he was missing the playoffs again.

  Randy had told him he had to process some paperwork and then he’d give him his phone call. That had been awhile ago. Jack was going to call his father, although he had some serious doubts that Tom would have enough money left in the family coffers to make bail. Operating as an illegal contractor? That could be a hanging offense.

  “Randy,” Jack called after half an hou
r or so. He heard a flush from the bathroom down the hall, and called again when the door opened.

  “What?” Randy yelled back.

  “How about my phone call?”

  He heard Randy groan, then footsteps coming back into the jail. “You are making my life a nightmare, Jack. I am dealing with a public relations disaster out here.”

  “And I would be filled with sympathy for you, Randy,” Jack said. “If I weren’t in jail.”

  Randy actually snickered at that. “Okay. I’ll let you out to make your call. But nobody is on the desk today, and I’ve got what looks like a full-scale protest out here.”

  He opened the cell and indicated a desk nearby with a phone. “One call. And not to the New York Times.”

  “Oh, Randy,” Jack said. “You know me so well.” He sat down, realized he didn’t know Tom’s cell, dialed the home number.

  The phone rang four times and went to message. “That’s weird,” Jack said. He hung up.

  “Hey, Randy,” he said. “My dad didn’t answer. I’m calling my sister.”

  “I said one call,” Randy shouted from the front office.

  “La la la,” Jack said. “I can’t hear you.”

  He called Mary’s number. No answer there, either. Maybe she was still at the building site.

  In any case, Jack was not going anywhere.

  The noise in the front office was getting louder—Jack could hear voices, thought he recognized some of them. Was that Dennis? Hoo boy. He walked out to the duty officer’s desk, where Randy had stationed himself.

  “Hey,” Randy said. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m escaping,” Jack said. He looked around the room. Thirty people from the Gobels’ were in the room, shouting at Randy. All that would fit. A sample of broadcast media, cameras, and reporters was also present. Jack raised his hands, and they quieted down a bit.

  “I thought I said to finish up the garage,” Jack said.

  “Built without a proper permit,” Randy muttered.

  “They’re finishing up,” Warren Koenig answered. Jack saw that his brother Van, the state senator, was standing next to him and nodded a hello. “We came down because Father Frank said we had to get you out.”