Suncatchers (51 page)

Perry felt a surge of impatience at the injustice Jewel had suffered. Bailey should have listened, he thought. At least given her the courtesy of hearing her out.

“Then he stood up,” Jewel said, “and said he was going fishing, just like that, and he walked over to the kitchen door—this one right here.” She glanced behind her, then pressed her lips together for a moment and held her breath. “
And that's when I said it
,” she said heavily, looking straight at Perry. He could see her eyes filling up with tears again.

He couldn't help himself. “Said what?” he asked.

Jewel lifted her head, exposing her long white neck. Her voice quivered as she spoke to the black sky above. “
Why don't you go jump in the lake?
” she whispered.

It took Perry a moment to understand. When he finally put it together, he realized he was staring at Jewel with his mouth gaping. Tears trickled slowly down her face. “But I didn't say it soft like that,” she said. “I shouted it.”

Perry couldn't stretch his imagination that far. He couldn't see Jewel shouting anything, much less something so childishly spiteful. But he knew it was true. She wouldn't make up something like this. In some different set of circumstances—a comedy routine or a funny movie perhaps—the scenario could be humorous. An old
I Love Lucy
plot maybe. Lucy and Ricky argue about money; Ricky says he's going fishing; Lucy tells him to jump in the lake; she receives word that his boat has capsized; she feels overwhelmed with guilt, thinking he has drowned; she delivers a penitent speech, vowing never to spend another cent unnecessarily; just then he walks in—having overheard her—seaweed clinging to his hat, lake water dripping all over her carpet, and she embraces him remorsefully as Fred and Ethel join them in laughter.

But, of course, in Jewel's case, there had been no surprise entrance at the end, no embrace of reconciliation, and certainly no laughter. For over three long years she had lived with this unforgivably dreadful thought branded into her memory. How often she must have yearned to reenact that final moment, to change her response. Like she said, she could have somehow borne the grief of losing him, but to know that her last words to her husband had been so cruelly prophetic—Perry wondered how she had faced each day. How could a loving God do that to a woman like Jewel? How could he leave her haunted by such a horrible memory? Leave her to wonder if her thoughtless words had somehow predisposed the accident? How could she keep going to church, singing about the mercies of the Lord, hearing Romans 8:28 repeated endlessly, praying to a God who would dump such an onerous burden on someone he supposedly loved?

“Do you love Willard?” Perry asked, taken back at his own bluntness. Maybe the question sprang from an intense desire to get her mind off the subject of Bailey, or maybe, he thought later, he had guessed the present cause of her brooding.

He must have guessed right, for Jewel clinched her hands tightly and emitted a heart-wrenching cry. “That's what's got me in such a
state!
” she said. “How can I marry a good man like Willard, knowing what I know? Willard thinks I can do no wrong. I look at him, like I did tonight at the hospital, and see his love for me shining through his eyes, and I think, ‘How can I let this go on, knowing what I did to Bailey?'”

Perry didn't stop to think about what he should say. It simply poured out. As he spoke, he watched Jewel's expression change from surprise to confusion to horror. “What
you
did to Bailey?” he said. “I don't get it. What about what
God
did to
you?
How come you're blaming yourself for this whole thing when, according to your theology, God is in control of everything? So you spouted off and said something you shouldn't have. So what? People do that all the time. Did that give God any right to penalize you by letting your husband drown? I don't see why you're so busy flogging yourself for something God could have prevented if He's really the kind of God you make Him out to be.”

Jewel shook her head in disbelief, her eyes wide, the paper napkin held tightly to her nose. “Oh, what have I done?” she said. “I shouldn't have told you . . . I can see how . . . but, oh, Perry, don't you
see
?”

“No,” he said. “All I see is a woman who can't accept a man's love because God keeps beating her over the head with His club—the one called Guilt. Try asking yourself how God could do what
He
did instead of how you could do what you did.”

Jewel covered her mouth with both hands and stared at Perry. When she finally spoke, she no longer sounded fragile and defenseless. Her voice was full of vigor. “Perry, no one has any right to ask God that kind of question!” She leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder. Her grip was amazingly strong. “If we were omniscient and omnipotent like He is, maybe then we could ask Him why—but He's so far above us that even if He tried to explain His ways to us, we couldn't begin to comprehend.” She shook her head energetically. “He took Bailey, and I don't question why. He had His reasons, and even if I never know what they were till I get to heaven, I still trust Him. He loved me then, and He loves me now, and He'll always love me.”

Neither one of them spoke for a long time. How simple this philosophy of life was, Perry thought. He remembered something Brother Hawthorne had said in a sermon: “Christianity defies the world's logic, for it is totally and utterly
simple
.” Suddenly he envied Jewel. He knew he should revile her, jeer at her lack of backbone, hurl insults attacking her faulty reasoning. But here he sat, envying her instead. To suffer as she had suffered and to be able to say with the deepest sincerity, “I accept this tragedy as part of my loving God's great, wise plan for my life” required a kind of strength he knew nothing about. Or
was
it strength? He felt curiously vitalized by Jewel's words, yet defeated, too. He had studied these people for endless weeks now, yet he knew so little about them in any real sense.

“It's my own selfish, foolish words I can't forget,” Jewel said finally. “That's where the blame lies. That's what I can't seem to get past. God didn't make me do that. And the devil didn't either. I did it all by myself. Every time Willard brings up getting married, I cringe inside. I see myself all worked up in my little tiff, and I hear those words ringing in my ears over and over. And I wonder, how long would it take before I said something ugly like that to Willard?”

So Willard was pushing for marriage. Perry had suspected it. He had originally hoped to observe both a wedding and a funeral to describe in his book, but he had been wondering lately if these last months would include a second wedding instead of a funeral.

“To answer your question earlier, yes, I do love him,” Jewel said. She gave a low laugh. “Even if he is as crazy about fishing as Bailey was—maybe more—and even if he is younger than me, and even if I did tell myself three years ago that I'd never ever marry again.” She spread out the paper napkin, then smoothed it out on her knee. “Willard's a good man—so thoughtful and kind and . . .
upright
. I respect him in so many ways. But I just don't know if I could ever—”

“If you could ever
what
?” Suddenly Perry felt strangely assertive. Somebody needed to talk straight to Jewel, and there was no one here to do it but himself. “Jewel, if I understand your religion right, I think one of the cornerstones is the idea of forgiveness. Am I right? All those songs and verses about God washing you clean of your sins, forgiving your loathsome iniquities, and all that—are those just
words
you say without meaning them? If God could forgive somebody like Paul for killing Christians, don't you think He could forgive Jewel Blanchard for saying one mean thing? If God has a purpose for everything, who knows?—maybe He had a great big overall reason for letting you lose your temper that day. Your problem is that you can't forgive
yourself
. God is willing to—if He's the kind of God Brother Hawthorne keeps preaching about—but for some reason you think you've got to torture yourself and do penance for the rest of your life. If you don't watch it, you might miss out on Willard. What if God
wants
you and him to get married but you turn him down because of all this you've been telling me? Then you've gone and spoiled God's plan.”

They stared hard at each other. Perry immediately regretted his words. Should he have spoken so rashly? Jewel must abhor him. A police siren droned in the distance, then grew louder, then faded. Hormel howled briefly in protest.

A slow smile gradually spread across Jewel's face. “Perry, you've put me to shame,” she said. “You're absolutely right. My heart tells me that every word you said is true. Maybe God wanted to teach me to watch my tongue. He sure did that. I've never been the same since. Every time I open my mouth, I stop to think: ‘Do I want this to be the last thing I say to this person?' But the part about forgiveness—that's the sad part. Why should it take somebody like you, who doesn't even profess to know Jesus, to remind me that God stands ready to put my sins behind His back forever?” She bent her head and fit the tips of her fingers together thoughtfully. Perry heard Eldeen singing, low and muffled, behind a closed door.

“And as usual,” Jewel continued, “the things you spend so much time wanting are never quite so wonderful after you get them.” She rested an elbow on her knee and propped her chin in one hand. “I love the children I teach,” she said, “but it's sure a harder schedule than I was expecting. Before, I was
begging
to work, and now I
have
to. Things sure change.”

“Don't they, though?” Perry replied.

“Okay, turnabout's fair play,” Jewel said. “You asked me, so I'm going to ask you. Do you still love your wife—it's Dinah, isn't it?”

Perry nodded, then sighed heavily. “Oh yes,” he said. “I still love her.”

They sat in silence for a while. Perry heard Hormel noisily lapping water from his dish behind the fence.

“You won't put any of this in your book, will you?” Jewel asked, looking sharply at Perry.

He shook his head. “My lips are sealed,” he said, smiling.

Eldeen must have opened the bathroom door, for the words she was singing suddenly became clear: “‘My life, my love, I give to Thee, Thou Lamb of God who died for me; O may I ever faithful be, My Savior and my God. I'll live for him who died for me, How happy then my life shall be! I'll live for him who died for me, My Savior and my God.'”

As he listened to Eldeen repeat the chorus, Perry remembered clearly the rest of what Brother Hawthorne had said: “But for all its simplicity, Christianity costs, in the words of T. S. Eliot, ‘not less than everything.'” It was a simple swap these Christians and God had worked out between them: your life for mine.

Eldeen's deep thick voice broke off halfway through the next stanza. Perry heard her heavy steps drawing nearer, and soon she was standing at the kitchen door in her long pink chenille bathrobe. The sash was twisted and cinched crookedly around her ample waist, one end dangling almost to her knees. She had a single wire curler speared by a white plastic pick on top of her head, and all Perry could think of was a small bone in the hair of some primitive native.

“What in the name of common sense are y'all doing still sitting out here in the chill night air?” Eldeen exclaimed. “You better come in and get to bed, Jewel! It's been a long, long day.” She swung the screen door open, and Jewel obediently arose and stepped inside.

“What's all that on the step?” Eldeen demanded, pointing sternly. Perry reached down and picked up the plastic scoop and the paper napkin that had fallen from Jewel's lap. It was damp and limp, shredded like a flag of surrender. Jewel winced apologetically and took them from him.

“Good night, Perry,” Eldeen said.

“Thank you, Perry,” Jewel added.

As he headed across the driveway, he heard Eldeen say, “I wonder what they'll feed Joe Leonard for breakfast in the hospital.”

Part Four

Sunlight

Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun.

Ecclesiastes 11:7

33

Another Lesson

“All right now,” Willard said, clapping his large hands lightly, “let's have prayer and get started. We'll do ‘Manger Star' first and work out some of the kinks, then go straight through the whole program from the beginning. I know it's a sacrifice to give up your Saturday morning, and I thank all of you, but if we work hard, we can be done by noon.”

As Archie Gowdy led in prayer, Perry could hear Eldeen's low rumbling laughter in the Sunday school room behind the baptismal pool, where a group of ladies had assembled to finish making little white angels to serve as window decorations for tomorrow morning's special Christmas service. Then very plainly, right during the lengthy pause between Archie's “For these things we ask in the name of Jesus our Lord” and his booming “Amen!” the entire choir heard Eldeen's voice clearly: “And would you believe that that ostrich's whole digestive tract was just jam-packed with
feathers
, of all things!” Jewel quietly left her seat at the piano and slipped back to close a door.

“Well, on that solemn note, let us begin,” Willard said, joining everyone else in laughter. Everyone was still chuckling as Jewel came back and slid onto the piano bench. Perry glanced down at Joe Leonard, who was grinning as he flipped through his choir folder.

“Manger Star” was a unique composition. Usually Willard arranged choir numbers based on familiar hymns, but for the Christmas program he had wanted something different, he said. He had written the piece especially for his choir, printing right on the music such notations as “Phil Spivey—solo,” “Vonda and Louise join tenors,” and “Birdie use chimes.” The text was a narrative, beginning with Joseph singing of the long journey to Bethlehem. The entire choir sang the chorus each time, ending with “The manger star marked the Savior's rude throne, till the daylight broke and the Son-light shone.” Perry wished there were some way for the audience to be aware of the altered spelling of Son-light. It made a difference in the effect of the line, he felt. Mary, whose part was sung by Edna Hawthorne, had the second solo stanza, and the shepherds sang the third. Then the whole choir, playing the role of the angel host, sang the fourth stanza.