The Cedar Tree (Love Is Not Enough) (12 page)

***

An hour later, his grandfather's telephone rang twenty times or more. While he waited, Gil leaned his head against the institution grey of the concrete wall in the county jail gently fingering his nose, assessing the damage. Maybe Rod hadn't broken it again after all.

He sighed. His grandfather must still be with Mabel's family. Or he might be at the Campbell place by now.

He hesitated, and then dialed Katie's number he'd memorized. Just in case.

She answered.

He winced. The one time he didn't want to talk to her…

"Hey. It's Gil."

She paused. "Hi."

He cleared his throat. "It was good to see you."

"Thank you," she said stiffly.

"Er…Is my gramps there?"

"Just a minute."

The screen door squealed in the background. She shouted for his grandfather.

A few minutes later, the old man picked up the receiver. "Gil?"

He winced again. Why'd his grandfather have to talk so loud all the time? People five miles away could probably hear him. "Gramps, I'm in jail."

The line went silent.

"How come you're in jail?" his grandfather bellowed, at last.

Unless Katie had suddenly gone deaf, she'd hear every word.

"It's kind of hard to explain and it'd take a long time—"

"I got plenty of time."

He sighed and leaned his aching head on the wall again. "I hit Rod Baker and broke Miss Means—"

"Who?"

"Miss Means. Ol' gal in a Falcon. Has cats."

"Not her. Who'd you hit?"

"Rod Baker."

"Rodney Baker? I went to school with his granddad."

"Was Miss Means your teacher?"

"What?"

"Was Miss Means your teacher?" he yelled.

"Naw. I went to school with her, though. Knew she'd never find nobody to marry her even then. Bossy little sourpuss always looked like she'd just swallowed a lemon. What'd you hit him with?" In spite of his grandfather's aside about Miss Means, steel underlay his tone.

"With my fist."

"Hurt him?"

"Not as bad as I wanted to."

"What'd you do that for?"

He hesitated. "I can't tell you right now. I just need you to come bail me out. I'll pay you back."

The old man paused. "Naw. Jail's the best place for you."

The receiver clicked in his ear.

Chapter Seven

The next morning, his grandfather held out a paper sack to the jail guard. Gil slouched at one of the half-dozen tables in the empty visitors' room while the guard—his stomach straining against the buttons of his uniform—drew a book from the bag, flipped its pages, and then nodded, handing it back.

The old man threaded his way through the tables then pulled two books from the sack, dropping a heavy, leather-bound Bible and an even bigger dictionary onto the table. Then he hooked the toe of his boot around the leg of a chair and drew it out.

He lowered his lanky frame and removed his hat, nodding unsmilingly at the books. "Brought you somethin'."

Still irritated by the old man's refusal to bail him out, he only raised a brow.

"When you're finished readin' that Bible, you call me and we'll see about gettin' you out—"

"Why can't you just—"

His grandfather raised a hand and went on—"of here. In the meantime, I know the sheriff and he's let me make some special arrangements for you."

He sullenly regarded the old man. "What arrangements?"

"Through the years, when any of the church boys has ended up here at the crossbars motel for bein' stupid—" his grandfather's gaze hardened—"the sheriff's let me make special arrangements for 'em. You boys get a special diet, an hour after dinner to go outside and get some air, and the rest of the time you're in your comfortable room with no tobacco, nothin' to bother you, and plenty of time to read. Somehow it always works out that the Book gets finished before the sheriff gets all the paperwork done to let you fellers out. He likes it 'cause he's never had a repeat offender out of the deal."

"Gramps—" he sat up in alarm—"I need to work. Why can't you just get me out of here? I told you I'd pay you back."

"Gil." The old man's gaze held his with sober intensity. "There's somethin' you don't realize. A whole lot of us church people around the world work our whole lives to maintain a good relationship with the law. This sheriff may not agree with the church on matters of faith, he may think we're too literal in our understandin' of the Bible, but he respects us and our right to live what we believe. Now, what do you think he'd make of it if I was to treat you different than the other boys just because you're my grandson?"

He eyed his grandfather then turned away. "What about my horses?"

"I turned 'em out in the big pasture."

He groaned. The big pasture was four hundred acres of the roughest ground his grandfather owned. "I ain't never gonna catch that paint horse if he runs loose for a couple of weeks."

"Read fast."

He eyed the thick, leather-bound volume on the table. Someone had engraved his name with silver lettering on the cover. "I've gotta read all of it?"

"I guess you don't have to read that letter to King James in the front, but it wouldn't hurt nothin'."

He flipped listlessly through the pages. "I went to school on an athletic scholarship, Gramps. The girls did my homework."

The old man scanned the empty room with raised brows. "Don't see no girls."

He sighed and lowered his head to his hands. A long silence stretched between the two of them.

"Does Katie know?" he asked, at last.

"Yep."

"Did she say anything?"

"Nope."

Another long silence stretched out, broken only by the echo of a metal door slamming and somebody swearing in the hall. His grandfather cleared his throat.

"She's havin' a pretty rough time of it with Dave still needin' care, and her mama bein' sick. She broke up with her boyfriend, too. You have anything to do with that?"

He jerked up his head in surprise. "No. She sent me down the road two months ago. I hadn't seen her at all to speak to until yesterday. Why?"

"No reason." The old man eyed him levelly then reached for his hat and stood. "You just start eatin' that book up. Parts of the Chronicles are pretty tough sloggin', but shouldn't be too tough for a tough guy," he said with heavy sarcasm. "Wouldn't hurt you to do some prayin' while you're at it. On your knees. There ain't no shame in bowin' to a King, and a little humility'd do you good. Call me when you get done with your readin'."

The disapproval and deep shade of worry in his grandfather's eyes troubled him and for the first time in his life he knew shame at disappointing somebody.

"One more thing," the old man said.

"What?"

"That jumpsuit don't do much for you, but I like the shoes." His grandfather's lips twisted into the shadow of a grin. "Might get me some."

He glanced down at the bright orange jumpsuit he wore, three inch tall letters emblazoning 'INMATE' across the back. The hems hit him about mid-shin when he sat down, and when he crossed his foot to his knee to examine a black canvas shoe, a strip of pale, hairy skin showed above his white socks.

He looked up at his grandfather. The old man's grin widened. He laughed in spite of himself.

His grandfather reached down, slapped his knee, and then started for the door. "The work's pilin' up, so call me soon's you're done readin'. There'll be a quiz."

***

The old wing of the jail held only one other inmate, a short guy with wimpy hands, stringy black hair, and cavernous dark eyes in a yellowed, skull-like face. In jail for his third drug violation, he was worried—as much as a guy who had burned up most of his brain cells could be—he'd be doing some hard time.

He sweated a lot, too, and Gil hated touching the damp basketball when the two of them shot hoops for an hour after the noon meal. He'd asked for his own ball, but since that had been the day after he'd asked the guard when his baby was due, the guard only denied his request with a sadistic roar of laughter, jiggling his gut against the strained fabric of his uniform. Fortunately, none of the uniform's buttons had popped loose. With pressure like that behind them, they could've killed somebody.

After noon on the third day, Jerry, the doper, worried about going to prison for real and missed baskets with the sweaty ball. He listened to the guy with half an ear—he had his own troubles. Every time he leaped into the air to dunk the ball, the legs of his orange jumpsuit rose halfway up his legs and one of his canvas shoes fell off.

He slipped on his shoe for the fifth time and glanced at Jerry, whose jumpsuit nearly swallowed him. "You had any dreams about it? Anything with baskets on your head?"

Jerry stared at him open mouthed, his brain almost visible in his vacant eyes, slowly grinding away.

"Most of my dreams have, like…crawly stuff…you know? I don't remember no baskets, man."

"I just wondered. There's this guy in the Bible that was kind of in charge of the jail." He passed the ball to Jerry. "He could tell people what their dreams meant. This one guy dreamed he had baskets on his head."

Jerry dropped the ball and ran after it, tripping on the hems of his jumpsuit. He turned to take his shot, leaping about three inches off the ground. His shoes stayed firmly attached to his feet. He missed the shot, chased the ball across the small area again and then tossed the ball underhanded to him.

"Maybe this guard knows somethin' about dreams." He jerked his chin toward the yawning man at the gate and lined up for a shot. "Go ask him what your dreams mean."

Jerry shuffled away toward the guard.

He bounced the ball, waiting. Sure enough, a moment later, the guard roared with laughter.

He shook his head and turned away…that right there was why he had never done drugs. What a turkey.

That night the food on his tray appeared exactly the same as the two nights before—canned beans and a slice of bread. He eyed it disgustedly.

"Hey, Jerry," he yelled. "You get any meat on your tray?"

Jerry paused. "I think so, man," he called back. "I got somethin' here that looks kind of brown…ish."

"It's not beans, is it?"

A silence stretched out. "I don't think so."

He eyed his bowl. "Thanks a lot, Gramps," he muttered.

Other than the hoops at noon, the three meatless meals, and periods of conversation when he alternately baited Jerry and made half-hearted attempts to ease his worries, there were no diversions except the Bible and frequent bursts of pent up energy he released by doing push-ups until his arms trembled. He'd heard of hostages needing to conserve their energy to stay alive, but so far the oatmeal, beans, and more beans had been enough to keep him going.

The Old Testament surprised him. He'd always thought of the Bible as the world's most boring book, but the beautiful women and strong men inhabiting its pages captured his attention. Wars and fighting, flagrant immorality—fat guys getting stabbed and other murders, drunkenness, adultery, lying, cheating, stealing—the ancient text held it all. The warriors, especially Gideon and David, fighting against impossible odds in hand-to-hand combat, appealed to his imagination and sometimes he told Jerry about them.

When he tired of reading, he lay staring moodily at the underside of the top bunk, picturing Katie as she'd been a few days before. What had that look in her eyes meant? Had she taken back those words she'd said to Lance…the ones she couldn't take back? Did he have a chance with her now?

Briefly, his hope rose then he remembered her words from that night on the mountain. Nothing had happened to change her opinion of him…except now he was in jail.

With no hard labor to tire him, the long hours of the night—when his defenses were low and self-honesty strong—stretched endlessly, making it impossible for him to rationalize Katie's words from that night on the mountain anymore. He was what she'd said he was, except…he hadn't been completely selfish. She had needed him that night and he'd come through for her. And he was in jail now because of her, so…maybe in a way, he was in jail for God because he'd defended her?

He didn't get on his knees and ask about it.

One night, Jerry's voice called through the darkness.

"Gil? You gonna bounce that ball all night, man? I got to have some sleep. They're takin' me outta here tomorrow."

For some reason, the guard hadn't confiscated the basketball earlier after he and Jerry shot hoops. Sleepless, he had been bouncing it against the wall in the darkness, unaware of Jerry in the other cell.

He caught the ball on its return bounce and held it. "Sorry, dude."

"How come you get the ball anyhow?"

"Maybe they thought you'd try to off yourself with it."

He threw the ball again. A long silence came from Jerry's cell.

"How would anybody kill theirself with a basketball?" Jerry asked, at last.

He sighed. "Jerry, go to sleep."

"I can't sleep."

"Sure you can."

Only the monotonous bouncing of the ball disturbed the darkness for a long while.

"You don't sleep much either," Jerry said. "You yell in your sleep sometimes. You have bad dreams or somethin'?"

He shifted on his bunk. "Sometimes."

"What'd'you dream about?"

He paused. "Mostly fightin' with my dad."

Jerry didn't need to know—nobody needed to know—about the recurring dream with Darlene, and…the other thing.

"I never knew my dad," Jerry said.

"Probably just as well," he said bitterly.

"At least you know who your dad is. He probably took care of you. Taught you somethin'."

"Yeah. He taught me how to ride, and rope, and drink—" his lips twisted—"and how to be the worst husband material in the world."

"You married?" Jerry's voice held surprise.

"No. You?"

"No." Silence came from Jerry's cell. "I can't think of one woman who's ever loved me. Can you?"