Boo (9 page)

“Miss Parker?” the owner asked.

She turned back to him. “I’m sorry. I was just noticing your—uh, never mind. Anyway, thanks for your help.”

She had to get to the hospital. She headed back into the cold.

Missy Peeple’s crumbling old teeth chattered in the cold, which she supposed helped to disguise her voice, lest anyone would want to know who was
really
calling. She was on hold, but from the little phone booth near the hardware store, she could see Boo leaving the church and walking up the hill to his home. She sighed in disgust. He was spending time at the church. That couldn’t be good.

“Are you still holding?”

“Yes, I’m still here,” she said, putting a deliberate and hard-to-find chime in her voice.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, ma’am. I’ll have to take a message. Mr. Tennison isn’t available.”

“Oh, is that so? If he knew what I had to say, I think he’d be on the phone.”

“He’s a very busy man—”

“Listen,” Missy said. “I’ve got information. Do you know what information means in a business like yours, deary?”

“Well—”

“Wrong answer. The correct answer is ‘One moment, please. I’ll get him.’ ”

A pause was followed by, “Ma’am, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but …”

Missy held her breath. She’d only put three dollars’ worth of quarters into the pay phone, and the time it took for the little brat to make up her mind had ticked the minutes away. She could still see Boo climbing the hill to his house, carrying a paper grocery sack filled with something. Her curious mind played over what it might be. How could a man of such fame and glory give it all up so easily? And with such disregard for the town that practically made him famous.

“Then I’ll leave a message. The message is this: ‘Wolfe Boone has become a Christian.’ I just thought his editor might like to know.”

She could hear the girl writing. “Your name?” she asked blandly, as if it were a prank call.

She paused, wondering if she should indeed gamble and give out her identity. She tried to guess what kind of man this Alfred Tennison might be. How would this news affect him? And what would he do with it? The call in and of itself was a gamble, but she had a feeling, a gnawing feeling, that Mr. Tennison would become quite useful.

“Miss Peeple. That’s M-I-S-S,” she said calmly, then added her phone number, and just for kicks, gave her address, too. The operator indicated her time was up, so she hung up the phone, just in time to watch Boo shut his front door.

Missy stood and pondered the phone call until something caught her eye. It was Oliver Stepaphanolopolis, the owner of a local used car business. She knew him from church. Had bought a car from him once, back when she was still allowed to drive. He passed Melb Cornforth, who was leaving The Haunted Mansion restaurant. He held the door for her, and she thanked him and continued on. But Oliver stood there and watched her walk down the sidewalk until he realized Thief, the sheriff’s cat, was about to make his way inside the restaurant. He shut the door quickly.

Missy Peeple smiled. Greed could make a man do anything. Love could make him do the unthinkable.

She made a mental note of it and then bundled herself up for the walk home.

Ainsley held Aunt Gert’s hand as tightly as she could, trying to hold back her tears. Gert was slightly propped up on several hospital pillows, her face pasty and pale, but her eyes as bright as always.

“Dear heart, don’t you cry. Why are you crying?”

Ainsley wiped at her tears. “I’m sorry. It’s just … they’re saying you won’t leave the hospital this time.” Before she knew it, she was sobbing, her head in the arms of the fragile old woman she was supposed to be comforting.

“There, there,” Gert said, stroking her head. “Death, where is thy victory? Where is thy sting?”

Ainsley lifted her head as the tears continued to roll. “But Aunt Gert, you’re all I have left of Mom.” Ainsley covered her face and continued to cry. “This is so selfish of me! You’re the one who needs comfort.” She gathered her emotions and tried to smile at her aunt. “You’ll get better. I know it. You will.”

Gert’s lips trembled a little, and she patted Ainsley’s face. Then she took a deep breath, as if that single motion drained all her energy. “Some people want to die at home. But I don’t. Everyone who would be at home knows Jesus. There are people here at the hospital I can still reach.”

“God can always work a miracle.”

“Sure He can. But I doubt He will.” She squeezed Ainsley’s hand. “I know it’s hard for you to understand. You’re in the prime of your life. Dying seems horrible. But when you’re my age, and you’ve lived through love and loss and pain and joy, you get a little tired, and the idea of leaving this old bag of bones behind and going to be with the Father … well, it doesn’t seem all that bad.”

Ainsley cried some more, all the while trying to stop herself.

Gert coughed a little and then continued. “You’re a bright young woman, full of life. Full of light. I’m so proud of you. And your mother is too. She’s up in heaven looking down on you. I’ll tell her hi when I get there.”

Ainsley laughed a little. “Okay.”

“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and I don’t want to see you waste any time crying over me.” Her gaze focused directly on Ainsley. “Besides, I know when I’m gone, you’ll be leaving. You have a whole other world to find out there.”

“I’d rather have you. You know that. I’d stay here forever if it meant you’d stay with me.”

“I know,” she smiled. “This isn’t such a bad town, you know. It’s not big and flashy, but there’s something to be said for—”

“I don’t hate this town. You know that. I love it. It holds the dearest memories of Mom. But I hate what it has become. And I think it’s time I let Dad go too. For me and for him.”

“Yes, well, all things happen for a purpose.”

Ainsley stroked Gert’s hair. “I wish I could see the good in everything like you do.”

“So be happy for me, that the pain’ll soon be gone and that I’ll be free from all the bad things on this wretched earth.” Her eyes looked up at the ceiling, as if she were seeing the very glory of God and His angels. “And old Wilbur’s up there. Can’t believe it’s been twenty years since the old fogy passed on. I’ll be glad to see him. He was the love of my life, you know.” She cracked a smile. “ ’Course, he was much more romantic in his younger years. The older he got, the crankier he got. But I still loved him.” Her eyes shifted to Ainsley, and she patted her on the arm. “You’ll find that someday, you know. The love of your life.”

Ainsley laughed out loud and shook her head. “At the rate I’m going, I’ll die an old maid. And Daddy is no help. Remember when Oliver Stepaphanolopolis set me up with that nice young man, Billy Hanover, who lived two counties over?” Gert nodded. “Daddy greeted him at the door with a shotgun. There’s nothing that kills romance like the idea that your date’s father is going to shoot you dead.”

“What about that vet? What’s his name?”

“Garth?!” Ainsley snorted. “Hah. Never in a million years.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Many things, not the least of which is that he smells like a horse all the time.”

Gert laughed, and Ainsley finally realized her tears had dried up. She felt a strange peace and knew God was comforting her.

“Well,” Gert said, “you’ll find the one. I know it.”

Ainsley sat back in her chair. “How will I know? How do you know who is the right person?”

Gert chuckled. “Well, from my experience it’s usually the last person on earth that you’d expect.”

“No kidding. Why do you say that?”

“Mostly because God has this funny sense of humor. But also because God wants us to find the person that complements us, so when we become one, as they say, we’re a whole person. If you marry someone just like you, then when you become one, well, there’s too much of one personality, let’s just say that.” She tried to sit up a little, as if excited about the topic. “You’ll find you have a few common interests. Enough so you can get to know each other.”

Ainsley listened carefully. Aunt Gert had always been wise, the wisest woman she knew. Still, in her heart she was skeptical. She tried to imagine what the exact opposite of herself was, and the thought scared her to death. Gert laughed, as if reading her mind.

“Don’t you worry about it, honey. It won’t pass you by. You’ll know.”

Ainsley blinked and looked at her aunt. “How will I know for sure?”

“There’ll be this little flutter to your heart. And when you look in his eyes, you’ll see a little sparkle, and it’ll tell you that he has eternity in mind.”

Ainsley shook her head. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Aunt Gert. By flutter, do you mean a little hiccup in your heart rhythm, like when you’ve had too much caffeine? Or more of a
thump, thump
, like when you’ve had the daylights scared out of you? And I’m sorry, but seeing
someone’s eye sparkle with thoughts of eternal love seems a little hard to read. Maybe they’re just standing near a light bulb or something.”

Gert chuckled heartily, gasped for some breath, and then patted Ainsley’s hand. “Dear, you’ve always been such a thinker. Just like your mom.”

“I know. I overanalyze everything, don’t I?”

“Not a bad quality,” Gert said. “Just not very romantic.”

“No one’s ever accused me of being overly romantic. I’ve got it in me, but I’m much more practical.”

“You’re perfect just how you are,” Gert said reassuringly. “And whoever it is God has for you will be perfect too.”

Ainsley sighed as she thought of the monumental task of finding the right person. “Well, I hope God doesn’t use his sense of humor on me. I hate surprises.”

Gert closed her eyes. “Oh, dear heart. Don’t ever say that out loud.” She looked toward the ceiling and pointed upward with a shaky hand. “He’s always listening.”

W
OLFE SAT NEAR
his bay window as evening absorbed the light of the day. He loved watching the sun set, especially from his old house on top of the hill. He’d fixed himself a fresh cup of coffee and felt more relaxed than he had in years. He continued to be amazed by the unexplainable peace he felt inside his heart. Though there was nothing really tangible about his conversion, his spirit confirmed its truth and authenticity. And now, as he watched the glorious colors of the evening sky stretch themselves in every direction, he knew he watched the paintbrush of God on the canvas of earth.

The stars twinkled early this time of year, and so he released the blinds of the window and went to sit by the fire he’d started. In the small drawer next to his favorite leather chair, he took out his private collection of poetry. It was a thick journal, full of the very depths of his soul. Many nights he would spend writing. Other nights he would spend poring over years’ worth of these kinds of writings. No one even knew he wrote poetry. It was the most private thing he did.

Tonight he turned back several months and read a poem he’d written on a warm spring evening. It amazed him how such colorful words could explain such dark despair. It was an uncomfortable read, to say the least. He hadn’t realized how very depressed he was, how dismal his soul. Hope was not to be found in these pages. He closed the journal and smiled at the thought of how much hope he had now.

He pulled out his favorite pen and decided to write his very first poem as a new creation. The feelings that pulsed through his heart were nearly indescribable, and for a long moment he could only try to find in his vocabulary a somewhat accurate description of the state of his soul.

Finally, the words came …

Wolfe read and reread the words, content with their meaning and content to be able to write from his heart.

The phone rang, startling Wolfe. It rarely rang, and almost never in the evenings. Who could be calling?

“Hello?”

“Wolfe! Glad I caught you.”