Suncatchers (58 page)

Perry thought Joshua was getting sidetracked now, bringing in the punishment part. That belonged in another sermon. After all, God wasn't punishing Jesus when He allowed Him to be crucified. But he instantly felt petty. Who was he to criticize a fourteen-year-old for letting a thread of logic go slack? Anyway, maybe he felt a tug of conscience about the point. Hadn't Dinah reproved him often for what she used to call his “misguided love” for Troy? “You say you can't spank him because you love him,” she would say, “but I say you
won't
spank him because you're afraid he'll quit loving you.” Her final comment during these lectures was always the same. “If you
really
loved him, you'd quit thinking about yourself and do what
needs
to be done!” Then she would storm out of the room, and Perry would seethe at the suggestion that his love for Troy was flawed and that
he
had ended up being the target of Dinah's wrath when it had been
Troy
who had thrown a tantrum or been blatantly disobedient.

Joshua's last point about God's love was simple. “God doesn't let His perfection get in the way of His love for us.” He went on to repeat a principle Perry had heard many times since coming here: “God loves us even when we sin.” Joshua developed the point further. “God doesn't love people based on their good works,” he said, “and even the best Christians can never, ever
earn
God's love. God doesn't say, ‘I won't love you unless you're perfect.'” Though Perry had marveled at the way these Christians and their songs focused so much on man's sinful nature, he had to admit that when he compared God's love to his own fatherly love for Troy, this last point of Joshua's made sense.

Several especially ugly, embarrassing scenes came to mind during which—to use the lingo of these Christians—Troy had graphically revealed the “depravity of humankind.” But had he withdrawn his love for Troy during those times? Not at all. He even remembered feeling a strange hot ache of sympathy once when he watched Troy kick Dinah's antique cherry serving cart until it tipped over and her prized set of Limoges demitasse cups was scattered in shards all around the dining room and kitchen. “He's just a little
child
,” he had thought. “He can't be expected to understand why he can't simply have what he wants.” Part of him envied the boy also—his childish prerogative of venting his feelings so unreservedly. What a luxury.

Joshua closed with a responsive reading of John 3:16–21. With the rest of the congregation, Perry read the last verse: “‘But he that doeth truth cometh to the light, that his deeds may be made manifest, that they are wrought in God.'” Perry thought he felt Eldeen's gaze on him, but when he glanced at her, her eyes were closed tightly, and her lips were moving slowly. She looked so weak and burdened—so pathetic, really—that he wanted to touch her. He wanted to remind her that it was Christmastime, that at her feet was a box of silly gifts waiting to be opened and laughed over in Fellowship Hall, that her daughter was getting married in two weeks, that her friend Flo Potter had finally come to church that morning for the special program and had promised to come back again next week—oh, yes, and that God loved her.
That
would cheer her up.

For the closing song, Joshua asked everyone to turn to “The Old Rugged Cross” in the hymnbook and to read the words as Joe Leonard played the melody on his tuba. It was a song they had sung many times. Even Perry knew the words by heart now.

He heard Eldeen sniff and looked over to see tears flowing freely down her wrinkled cheeks and splashing onto the page of the hymnal. “Oh, come now,” he wanted to say to her, “you're all worked up over nothing—at least nothing new. Joshua is only fourteen,” he wanted to remind her. “That certainly wasn't
his
sermon he just delivered—his dad probably wrote out the whole thing and told him exactly what to say. He as much as admitted it. And besides, it was nothing you haven't heard a hundred times before. You've got to understand that a service like this is bound to elicit a sentimental response,” he wanted to say, “but remember, break it down into its component parts and it was just a motley crew of eight kids, a flute and a drum, a few Bible verses, some songs, a short talk about a subject you've heard over and over, and now a tuba. ‘The Old Rugged Cross' is just a song, that's all. It's nothing to get all choked up over, except that maybe your grandson is playing it. Look on the bright side. Even if there ever really
was
an old rugged cross, all that was ages ago—and anyway, look at the last line. Someday you're going to get a
crown
—won't that be nice? Think about
that
,” he wanted to tell her.

Jewel dug in her purse and handed Eldeen a tissue. She wiped off the hymnal first. Then as Brother Hawthorne stood to say a few concluding words and lead in a closing prayer, Perry saw a picture of startling clarity in his mind: Eldeen, dressed in a long flowing robe of luminescent white, was carefully bending to lay an armful of shining trophies at the foot of an ancient, weather-battered cross. And instead of a little golden cup on each trophy base, the small golden figure of a person adorned each one. One he recognized as Mr. Hammond, another was Flo Potter, another was Glenda Finch, and another was Roberta Harrelson. But there were many others that he didn't have time to identify before Brother Hawthorne's prayer ended and the scene vanished.

37

A Real Eye for Quality

The Golden Oldies of Derby had sought, and received, financial backing from almost every business in town when they had set out twenty years earlier to build their store. The G.O.O.D. Country Store was located on Lambert Street a block off Fredericks Road next to the city park. It was a neat little log cabin with red gingham curtains at the windows and several big red rocking chairs on the porch.

When Perry pulled up in front of the store on Thursday morning, it was still raining—a cold, steady drizzle. It had kept up off and on all week, ever since Sunday evening. People were beginning to wonder if it would rain straight through Christmas Day, which was only two days away now.

The leaves of the holly bushes in front of the porch railing were bobbing erratically from the raindrops. As Perry walked up the short sidewalk to the shelter of the broad porch, he heard a man's deep, hearty laugh from inside. A bell clanged stridently as the door flew open and an elderly woman emerged, briskly snapping open a black umbrella the size of a small satellite dish.

“Come back and see us, Blanche,” said the man at the door. Then, catching sight of Perry, he called, “Hello there! Come on in here where it's warm and dry—that is, if you can get around Miz Fisher and her umbrella.”

The woman quickly raised her umbrella and stared at Perry, her eyebrows arched neatly and her prim mouth forming a small round
o.
Perry saw then that besides her umbrella and long khaki raincoat, the woman had a plastic rain hat tied around her head and clear plastic boots over her sensible shoes.

She fixed Perry with a severe scowl and said, “You are not dressed for this weather, young man. You will get sick.” Perry felt sure that at one time in her life this woman had been a schoolteacher. He could clearly hear a younger version of her stentorian voice saying, “You are not prepared for this examination, young man. You will fail.” He ducked past her and entered the store. The bell gave another cheery clank as the man closed the door.

“Miz Fisher's not one for small talk,” he said to Perry, his small, red-rimmed eyes shining jovially. “I just tried to tell her a funny story as she was leaving, and when I finished, she glared at me and said, ‘Life is too short for such folderol, Mister Abrams.'” He threw his head back and brayed with laughter, then extended his hand. “Hollister Abrams here,” he said. “I'm working here today, along with Charlotte Dalby over there.” He waved toward the cash register, where a silver-haired woman sat crocheting. She never lifted her eyes. “Don't believe I've ever seen you in here before,” he said, and Perry shook his head.

Hollister Abrams had a gold tooth in front. That was the first thing Perry had noticed, though there were many other things to notice. The man's other teeth were worn down to yellowish stubs, and from his large flared nostrils and sizable ears grew tufts of dark hair. His watery eyes looked like two small beads embedded in the broad expanse of his ruddy face, and stiff clumps of salt-and-pepper hair shot out at odd angles from his head. Perry wondered if Hollister was his own barber. His eyebrows were mostly gray, but several long dark hairs stood out like spikes. Tall and husky, Hollister Abrams carried himself like a much younger man. Perry couldn't help wondering what he had looked like at the age of, say, twenty. Was it possible that he had ever been considered remotely handsome? Had there ever been a young girl madly in love with him, who wore his picture in her locket and gazed at it longingly? Had a child's tiny fingers ever traced the odd configuration of this face?

Hollister was pointing out the different features of the store, starting with the woodcrafts in the nearest corner labeled
G.O.O.D. Country Carvin'
and moving around the room to the
G.O.O.D. Country Stitchin', G.O.O.D. Country Decoratin'
, and
G.O.O.D. Country Cookin'
.

“Then over here in this part,” he concluded, gesturing toward the area by the cash register labeled
G.O.O.D. Country Livin'
, “we got a few miscellaneous things like that doorknocker there on the wall made out of old Pepsi bottle caps and those milk jug games on the floor.”

“Thanks,” Perry said. “I'll just look around.”

“The prices are right here on the tags,” Hollister said, picking up a wooden mouse with a clothespin glued to the end of its nose.

“What is that?” Perry asked.

“It's a recipe holder. See, you hang it on the knob of your cupboard by its tail,” and he demonstrated by swinging it from his index finger. That was when Perry noticed that the man was missing two fingers on one hand. “Then you put your recipe card in here,” he said, pressing the clothespin open, “and you got it right there at eye level.” Hollister pointed to the price tag. “It says what it is right here by the price in case you can't figure something out from looking at it.” And sure enough, in small spidery letters was printed “$4.50 Recipe Holder.” Turning the price tag over, Hollister continued: “And here on the back it tells the name of the person who made it,” and he pointed to the words “Dash Pearson.”

“I see,” Perry said, wondering if someone's name really was Dash or if he had misread it. Maybe it was a nickname. Then, fearful that Hollister would hover at his elbow, he said again, “Thank you. I'll just look around.” This made no impression on Hollister, however, who set down the wooden mouse and held up a highly varnished wooden plaque with
HOME SWEET APARTMENT
stenciled on it in gold letters and bright bouquets of flowers decoupaged in each corner.

“Isn't this something?” Hollister said, his gold tooth flashing. “Rudy Sears just brought this in the other day. You buying any Christmas presents for newlyweds? This might be just the thing—well, maybe. I don't know. Personally, it wouldn't be my style.”

“No,” Perry said absently. As his eyes traveled over the shelves of wooden items, he perceived an overlap problem. Why was the wall plaque in the
G.O.O.D. Country Carvin'
section instead of
G.O.O.D. Country Decoratin'?
It seemed as if it could easily go in either section. And hanging on the wall right in front of him was an elaborately cross-stitched proverb—“Tall oaks from little acorns grow”—inside a frame made out of what the price tag said were “crushed acorns.” Didn't it belong as much in
G.O.O.D. Country Stitchin'
as in
G.O.O.D. Country Carvin'
? The needlework may have even taken longer to do than the frame.

“That's the same problem I've had with my book,” he heard himself saying aloud.

“What's that?” asked Hollister, his small friendly eyes twinkling with interest.

“Oh, nothing,” Perry answered quickly. “I was thinking about something else. It's not always easy to know . . . where things fit.”

“Well, now, that's the truth,” Hollister said, setting the wooden plaque down. “Everything in this whole world is so . . . so linked together,” and he made interlocking circles out of his thumbs and index fingers. He wore a wedding band on his right hand, Perry noticed, for it was his left hand that was missing the two middle fingers. Hollister Abrams turned and looked Perry directly in the eye. It lasted only a fraction of a second, but in that brief time Perry was convinced that he and this man could communicate on a level requiring very little verbalization. Just then the bell on the door clattered again, and two women and a little boy entered. Perry saw Hollister glance at them, then over at the woman crocheting behind the cash register. Her fingers never stopped, and her eyes never lifted.

“Go ahead,” Perry urged. “I can look around by myself.”

Hollister cupped one hand around his mouth and leaned closer. “Charlotte Dalby is a nice woman in her own way, but she's got it in her head that her only job is ringing up the sales.” Perry smiled understandingly, and Hollister gripped his shoulder firmly. “I'll check back with you,” he said. “Just save your questions.” As he turned toward the other customers, Perry heard him say, “Feels good in here where it's warm and dry, doesn't it, ladies? Hi there, young man.”

It was then that Perry saw the jelly cabinet Eldeen had talked so much about last night on the way to prayer meeting. It was sitting in the corner of
G.O.O.D. Country Carvin'
next to a little wooden doll stroller. It had to be the one since there didn't appear to be anything else like it. Checking the price tag, Perry was sure this was it. “$95 jelly cabinet,” it read, and on the other side “Oliver Peake.” Perry examined it closely. Not exactly Ethan Allen, but a highly commendable job, especially considering what he'd heard Eldeen say about Oliver Peake and his weak nerves. “Some days he says he shakes so bad he can't even button his clothes,” she had said last night.