Times and Seasons (7 page)

Mark
braced himself against the profanity spewing from the kid behind him in line. Surely the words would erupt into action, he thought, and someone would get hurt. He stood stiff with trembling, clammy hands at his sides.

The pale, greasy kid behind him looked like he’d lost a recent fight. His orange jumpsuit, identical to the one they’d issued Mark, was dotted with blood from his busted lip and broken front tooth.

This was all a mistake, he thought, desperately fighting tears that would mark him as a loser. He wasn’t like the ones in this line, with their foul mouths and fighting wounds. They’d kill him as soon as they knew he was weak. He would be an open target—the home-school kid from suburbia. His conviction was a death sentence.

A yellow school bus with bars on the windows came to the curb. A guard with the build of a bouncer began ushering them on. It had been a long rime since he’d ridden a school bus, a year
and a half at least since his mother had taken him out of the public school and trusted him with Brenda to educate. He wondered what Miss Brenda thought of him now. Had Daniel told her how innocent the whole stupid thing had been? That he’d never in a million years thought he’d wind up here?

It was a joke, he thought. It had to be.

He got onto the bus and took a seat on the courthouse side. He watched the door of the old building, certain that his mother would come along, point to him, and say, “Gotcha!” Then he could get off and lose these handcuffs. It had to be one of his mother’s object lessons. A year and a half ago she’d been so mad at him after he got suspended from school that she had taken him to River Ranch for a tour. Maybe this was just a step up from that. Maybe she just wanted him to know what it was like to get arraigned and convicted. Maybe it was all a conspiracy and the whole neighborhood was part of it. It was a pretty cruel way to teach a lesson, but he wouldn’t hold it against them.

But his mother didn’t come out, and no one lingered at the curb waiting to get him off the bus. Then the doors closed and the guards got on, and the bus started moving. It was not a trick, and it wasn’t one of his mother’s lessons. He was on his way to the state’s teenaged version of prison.

The bus smelled of body odor, unwashed hair, and stale vomit. Mark stole a look around. Some of the prisoners had been here before, and their faces held dread but no mystery or fear. They sat like powder kegs ready to ignite. Others looked as though they’d just been shoved off a cliff. One kid up at the front was so pale that Mark thought he needed medical care.

Mark thought he was going to be sick, too.

Where was his mother? Why hadn’t his father done something? The bus turned down a dark, tree-covered street, moving farther and farther and farther from anyone who cared.

After a while, they came upon the facility that he had seen only as a spectator a year and a half earlier. Even when he’d been arrested last year, they hadn’t locked him up. He’d had friends who’d spent a little time here. His friend Jayce from Knoxville
had a droopy eye because he’d gotten in a fight in the center and it had damaged a nerve in his eyelid. They were mean here, he’d warned him, but Mark had had no intentions of ever confirming that fact.

They were taking this punishment thing too far, he thought as his lungs tightened. He wouldn’t do it again if they’d just let him out. He would study and clean his room and respect his mom.

The bus stopped, and an angry guard stepped on and walked up and down the aisle. “Stand up!” he shouted, as if he’d told them a dozen times and was tired of it. “On your feet!”

Mark got to his feet.

“Hustle, now. Single file! Mouths shut!”

Mark shuffled off the bus and looked up at the Conan-sized guard waiting to take them inside. “Excuse me,” he whispered. “This is all a mistake.”

The man gave him a look of mock amazement, then shot another guard a look and started to laugh.

“No, really,” Mark said. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Course not,” the guard said. “But till they discover their mistake, how about you just line up with all the other mistakes?”

Mark closed his eyes. “But you don’t understand. My mother’s going to get my lawyer to do something. She’ll never let this happen. I’ll be out of here before dark. There’s no point in going through any more of this.”

“What’s your name?” the man boomed, making Mark jump.

Mark straightened and looked around. The other guys were getting a laugh out of this. “Mark Flaherty.”

“Let’s see,” the guard made a ceremony of checking his clipboard. “Mark Flaherty, Mark Flaherty. Oh,
yeah
, here it is.” His eyes widened and he looked up at Mark. “You know, you’re right. It is a mistake. Good clean kid from Breezewood don’t belong in no juvenile facility. Says it right here. Whadda you know?”

Mark’s heart soared and he looked over at the clipboard for the place where the man pointed. Then laughter spat out, and the guard doubled over. The inmates around them snickered
with bitter superiority. Mark felt like an idiot. They were playing him, he thought. They didn’t understand, but they would as soon as his mother came and did something about this mess he was in. And if she didn’t, his father would. He knew they wouldn’t let him stay here another night.

His mother had jerked him out of public schools because he’d been hanging with people like this. If she’d known what he’d been doing in Knoxville, she would have had every lawyer in town working to keep him from going there again. No, she would never sit still for this.

But he could do nothing except go along now as they marched them into the facility.

Tory
had neither the time nor the energy to attend Sylvia’s luncheon presentation at Cathy’s church—but she’d had so little opportunity to hear about Sylvia’s work that she and Brenda felt obligated to go.

Tory hadn’t wanted to leave Hannah at home, so she had brought her with her. She was exhausted from battling Hannah’s ear infections and bronchitis the night before, but this afternoon they had sessions with the physical therapist, the respiratory therapist, and the occupational therapist.

She had brought Hannah’s stroller and hoped the baby would sleep through the meeting. But before she had taken her seat, she heard her name shouted over the ladies filling the room.

“Tory Sullivan!”

She looked up and saw Amy Martin, an old friend who lived next door to her in the duplex where she and Barry lived before they’d had children. “Amy!” she said, and threw her arms around the woman. “I didn’t know you went to church here.”

“Six years,” the woman said. “Look at you. You’re so thin and perfect, just like you always were.” She bent down to the stroller and smiled at Hannah. “A baby? What is this? Your third?”

Tory grew tense. “Yes, my third.”

“Oh, what a sweetie!” She reached into the stroller and tickled Hannah’s stomach. The child’s mouth was open, and her tongue was hanging again. Tory wished she would pull it back in. “How old is she?”

Tory thought of lying, then was instantly ashamed. “Fifteen months.”

“Fifteen?” The word came out a little weaker, and Amy eyed the baby again.

“She has Down’s Syndrome,” Tory said quietly.

Amy raised back up, her face stricken. “Oh, Tory! That’s awful. I’m so sorry, honey.”

Tory didn’t know what she’d expected. Maybe the usual change of subject, or some benign words about how Down’s Syndrome kids were such sweet children. Those things always made her angry, because she didn’t like stereotypes any more than dismissal. But the sorrow was a new one. No one had expressed sadness over Hannah’s birth in a long time.

Brenda stepped up to the stroller and found Hannah’s pacifier. She gently put it in her mouth. “She’s a precious child,” she said. “Tory is a world-class mother. No child with Down’s Syndrome was ever more blessed.” She smiled that smile that instantly put people at ease. “I’m Tory’s neighbor, Brenda Dodd.”

“Amy Martin,” the woman said. She turned her sorrowfilled eyes back to Tory. “We need to get together sometime and catch up, Tory. Over lunch, maybe.”

There it was. The dismissal. Tory realized that Amy couldn’t win. Anything she said would have made Tory angry. This wasn’t her friend’s problem. It was hers.

“Let’s do that,” she said, then looked up and saw that the chairman of the ladies’ group was heading to the stage. Sylvia was about to be introduced.

Brenda took a seat near the back, but Tory felt tears choking her. She lifted Hannah out of her stroller. “I have to change a diaper,” she whispered to Brenda. “I’ll be back.”

Brenda watched her retreat. Tory knew her neighbor read every crushing thought on her face and would have done anything to fix it. But this couldn’t be fixed.

When Tory was in the hall, she held Hannah close, as if to make up for any slight the baby had faced. The pacifier fell out and rolled across the carpet. Tory bent to get it and slid it into her pocket until she could wash it. Hannah looked up at her with her mouth open. “She didn’t mean it,” Tory whispered to the child. “She doesn’t know what a treasure you are.”

As hard as she had fought to encourage Hannah’s development, part of her hoped the child never grew aware enough to feel shame over something she couldn’t control.

Then again, she wanted her to be normal, and be aware of everything.

She couldn’t have it both ways.

She heard the group applauding as Sylvia got to the stage. Tory listened from the hallway as Sylvia told about her work in León, first with the orphans, then with the food program for the poor. Then she introduced the slides she had to show them.

Wearily, Tory went back in. She returned to the back row next to Brenda, Hannah in her lap, hugged back against her.

The woman operating the slide projector took her cue, and the first picture flashed on the screen. “I want to show you a few slides of the children that come to us for food,” Sylvia said. The face of a starving, malnourished boy flashed onto the screen. He was dirty and had crusty mucus under his nose and greasy tangled hair. Rags hung off his body, as if his clothes had been made for someone much larger. He had a look of hopelessness on his face, and his eyes held a glint of despair. His little belly swelled above bony legs.

“This is Miguel,” Sylvia said, her voice catching. “He’s my little friend. His father was killed in the hurricane along with two of his sisters. His mother and he come each night hoping
that we’ll have food. We’ve been feeding him for about a month now, mostly beans and rice, since that has a lot of nutritional value and it doesn’t cost very much. We figured out that we can feed a hundred to a hundred-fifty children like Miguel on $400 a month. Think about it, people,” she said. “That’s a little over two and a half bucks to as high as four dollars a day to feed a child like Miguel for a month. What better use can you think of for your money?”

Tory sat straighter, her arms tightly wrapped around Hannah. Another face flashed on the screen. This boy had bright, alert eyes.

“This is also Miguel,” Sylvia said. “I took this picture the day I left. Notice the difference. His little belly isn’t as swollen. He has a twinkle in his eye. He’s actually smiling now. He connects. Not only has the food filled his hungry belly, but it’s helped him physically in so many other ways. But that’s not all,” she said. “We had a Bible school last week in León, and little Miguel gave his life to Jesus. His mother brought him to church last Sunday. I have every faith that soon she’ll come to Christ, too.”

Applause erupted over the crowd. Tory could see that she wasn’t the only one moved by the pictures. She glanced at Brenda and saw the tears on her face.

Sylvia showed several other slides, equally dramatic photos of other children she knew by name, their mothers and fathers, their baby sisters and brothers. When the slides were finished, Sylvia leaned on the podium, her eyes sweeping over everyone in the room.

“I know that Nicaragua seems a long way away,” she said. “It did to me when my husband first came home and told me he wanted to go to the mission field there. And these faces, you don’t know them. You’ve never seen them. Chances are, you’ll never meet any of them. But I can tell you, they’re real. They’re my family now. They live where I live, and they’re victims of the hurricane that has just destroyed the economy, taken away their homes and their businesses, ruined their crops. I know that the Lord sent me there to help in the aftermath of Hurricane Norris, and my
husband and I are willing to make as many sacrifices as we can to help those people. But I came here today to ask you to help, too.

“Think about it. Four dollars or less will feed one child for a month. What do you spend four dollars on?” she asked. “When I lived here, I spent four dollars a day on the sodas I drank. It was nothing to run through McDonald’s and pick up a burger and fries for under four dollars. But if you think about it the next time you go through that fast food window and realize that there’s a child in another part of the world, with a distended belly and skinny little arms and a look of hopelessness in his eyes, then maybe you’ll choose to spend that money on him, instead.”

Tory smeared a tear across her face. Sylvia was right, she thought. Here Tory sat in her perfect little world, worrying constantly about her imperfect little child. But Hannah was happy and she was healthy and she was a joy, even if others couldn’t see it. What if they’d had a hurricane sweep through the land and destroy their homes and businesses? What if they didn’t have enough food to eat and had to rely on the kindness of people like Sylvia to feed them? What if that was all her children could hope for?

When Sylvia asked for pledges from the people there to help support the food program in León, Tory wanted to fill out a card. But this wasn’t her church, she thought.

“We have to get our church involved,” she whispered to Brenda.

Brenda’s eyes glistened, too. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

They were quiet as they got back into the car and drove home. “That was really good, Sylvia,” Tory said. “Really, really good.”

“Thank you,” Sylvia said. “I get a little nervous when I get up in front of all those people like that. But then I remember it’s not for me.”

“What can we do, Sylvia?” Brenda asked. “How can we help?”

Sylvia smiled. “Well, to tell you the truth, I
had
planned to hit you up for something.”

Tory grinned. “What?”

“Well, when I made it known I was coming home for a few days, I started getting a lot of invitations to speak to other churches about the work I was doing. I had to turn some of them down. But I was thinking that maybe you and Brenda and Cathy could go around and do it for me. I could leave these slides for you and some of my notes. If you could just go and make a presentation, tell them about the work we’re doing, maybe you could get them to raise some money, too. We need all we can get. If we don’t get it, we’ll have to turn children like Miguel away. We’ll have to tell their mothers and fathers that we can’t help them. Then they won’t want to hear the gospel, and they’ll never get what they need most.”

“I’ll help,” Brenda said. “But I’m not too good at public speaking. I kind of go weak in the knees. I break out in hives.”

Tory grinned. “No, you don’t.”

“I do,” Brenda said. “I have this fear of throwing up right on the stage.”

“Brenda Dodd?” Tory asked. “The woman who has it together better than anyone I know, except Sylvia?”

“Well, sorry to pop your bubble,” Brenda said. She was growing pale just talking about it. “I’ll do what I can. I mean, I can try…”

“Me, too,” Tory said. “I don’t know what I’ll do with Hannah. But I’ll figure something out. Maybe we could do it together. Brenda could hold Hannah and work the slides, and I could speak.”

“I could do that,” Brenda said.

“Don’t forget Cathy. I want her to get involved, too. It might help her get her mind off of Mark.”

“I don’t think anything is going to help get her mind off Mark,” Brenda whispered.

“I’ve never heard her yelling like she did at the courthouse today,” Tory said in a quiet voice.

“She seems so well-adjusted. You’d never know she had all that anger…”

“She’s probably been wanting to say those things for years.”

“I just wish she hadn’t said it where the kids could hear,” Brenda said. “They need to think their father’s their hero—even if he’s not.”

“Brenda’s right,” Sylvia said. “No matter what a father does—or doesn’t do—the children need to see him on a white horse. If they don’t, how can they believe that God the Father is their rescuer and redeemer?” She looked out the window at the hazy mountains overlooking Signal Mountain. “Some of the children in León are so wounded by their fathers being absent during the hurricane. Little children and their mothers had to fight to survive on their own, when the father’s strength might have made a difference. I can’t fathom why men don’t know how important they are.” She dabbed at her eyes and glanced from one friend to the other.

“I’m glad I came home for the shower, even if it wasn’t what we planned. But to tell you the truth, I can’t wait to get back. I miss the children, and the eagerness in their faces, the sweet expectation when they look at me.”

“Then it
was
a calling,” Brenda said. “A couple of years ago you fought it tooth and nail.”

“Yeah, but the Lord changed my heart. And now I don’t think I could ever come back.”

“Don’t say that, Sylvia,” Tory said. “Let us go on thinking that someday we’ll have you back to sit with us on Brenda’s porch and mentor us into women of God.”

“You’re already women of God,” Sylvia said. “But who knows what the Lord had in mind?”