When You Believe Read online

  Shelby’s hair was still up in its turban, but her tormented expression was gone. “Oh, here’s another one. Listen. ‘Lyd, your friendship has always meant so much to me, especially because you’re always willing to listen to me whenever I need advice, and boy have I needed it a lot this year! Especially at 3 A.M., remember?!? Not many people would have done that! It means a lot to me and I will remember it always. I’m not going to tell you to be good because that’s hopeless! Have a great summer, Sarah A.’” Shelby pulled the towel down out of her hair and shook her head. “That’s cool what that one wrote. About how you listen to her.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Where are you in here, Miss P?”

  Lydia flipped a few pages and pointed out her photo.

  “That’s you? No way.”

  “Way.”

  “Why’s your hair all big and poofy like that?”

  “Because that was the style back in the dark ages of the eighties.”

  “It looks like it was curled by a steam roller.”

  “Steam rollers,” Lydia said. “Yes, we used those.”

  “No, a steam roller. The kind they use to build new roads.”

  “I am a staff member at your high school,” Lydia said. “Your high school counselor. You can’t talk about my hair that way.”

  “Sorry.” With a lovely giggle, Shelby smacked the book shut and handed it over. Lydia poked it as far back as it would go on the shelf.

  “You know that one thing that girl wrote?” Shelby asked.

  “Which one?”

  “About how you were always willing to listen?”

  “Yeah.”

  Lydia heard a car drive up outside. She peered out the curtain. “There’s an old white Pontiac at the curb. Who is that, Shelb? Is that somebody in your family?”

  “My grandfather,” Shelby said as she circled her mug rim with one slow finger. “He must have volunteered to come pick me up.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  But Shelby only said, “I feel the same way about you as that girl in your yearbook did, Miss P. Whatever happens about anything, I just wanted you to know.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sunday morning at Big Tree Baptist Church was a morning for wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses. But Lydia was having a difficult time finding hers.

  She grabbed for her purse and dug around in it. They weren’t there. She scrabbled around on the car seat, checking the cracks and the drink holder. They weren’t there, either.

  Just then, she remembered she’d been wearing them while she’d been driving. She checked the top of her head with her hand, and there they were. She pulled them down over her eyes and glanced around, hoping that no one had seen that.

  The sun was so bright that wet quartz gravel shimmered like opal underfoot. All things nearby and in the distance below them shone with the same radiant, holy brilliance as a candle’s glow. Lydia shut her driver-side door and stood with her fingers on the car mirror.

  Elbow Knob, where the church stood, marked the highest point in St. Clair County. The view was beautiful all around it.

  Lydia removed her sunglasses once more, and buffed the lenses against her shirt hem. As quickly as she’d taken them off, she shoved them onto her nose again, as if hiding behind dark shades might well be the survival tactic of the day.

  The Reverend Joe R. Douglas, a long-time fishing buddy of her Uncle Cy’s, came billowing across the parking lot in his black chasuble. “Lydia, how are you this morning?”

  “I’m fine.” What a great liar she was.

  He must have caught her taking cover and knew exactly what that meant. “I read the article in the Democrat Reflex yesterday. You are involved in all this, aren’t you?”

  “I’m usually involved when a high school student needs help. It’s my job.” Then, “There was an article in the newspaper?”

  “Yes, very brief and full of facts. There was a police report. It included an official school statement, that an investigation had gotten underway. That was all.”

  “I see.” Brad did what he said he’d do.

  “You know, of course, that it’s everybody else in town who has been filling in the blanks. Charlie Stains, just days after he bought our boat. It’s such a shame.”

  She didn’t know whether he meant it was a shame that Charlie was being held responsible, or it was a shame that somebody responsible had bought the church’s boat.

  “Charlie always wanted—” Lydia stopped. Of course, she changed the subject. “You always come this far out into the parking lot to greet bystanders, Pastor Joe?”

  He gave a little grin and pantomimed the motion of setting a fishhook in a big crappie. “Only if I know somebody’s had a tough week. Only if I’m not sure they’re going to make it to the door.”

  The church door had been thrown open to greet the sun. Organ music, in what Lydia recognized as the somewhat questionable but enthusiastic style of Dr. Duncan Minor, vibrated the sumac plumes in the brass umbrella stand that propped open the door. Even all the way out here, you could hear Dr. Minor playing interlude hymns with the same relish as the theme song to Rollerball.

  In the lull between each new verse of song, snatches of conversation wafted toward them as churchgoers passed the parking lot. “. . . rumors flying… no charges… investigation… that’s what I heard… there could even be a trial.”

  “A trial in St. Clair County?”

  “Right in that front courthouse room in Osceola, over there where you have to go get your vehicle licenses paid.”

  For the moment, as Pastor Joe moved on to speak with someone else, Lydia held back. Until this moment on Elbow Knob, with the bright world gleaming in 360 degrees around her, she had not been able to see the full view of her resentment toward God. On the outdoor sign where Joe pasted weekly Scripture readings, it read: He will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green.

  Okay, so I’m not that tree in the Bible. My limbs are broken and dry. My roots have been ripped up out of the mud. I’m ready to be crushed by the current. Okay.

  Regret, as strong as a Missouri king snake, coiled tight around her middle. And, for some reason, Eddy Sandlin came to mind, the story Brad had found on microfiche, the little lost boy she’d found, sitting in the middle of a rushing creek atop a dead snag-wood tree.

  I don’t know how to get from where I am to where I was. I don’t know how to escape from this dry place.

  Inside the church’s foyer a stainless-steel coffeepot crouched on a table beside Styrofoam cups. A tall spray of red carnations and baby’s breath and leather-leaf fern, as widespread as a ballerina’s arms, decorated the table. The place smelled like Starbuck’s in Springfield and sounded every bit as lively. No, take that back. With the pounding of the organ, it reminded Lydia more of Busch Stadium before a Cardinals game.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” someone asked as she stepped forward, looking for the right place to sit. “Do you mind moving as close toward the front of the sanctuary as possible? And moving toward the center of the row?”

  “No. No, that’s fine,” she said, feeling dismayed. She had hoped to hide in the back.

  “Forgive us for moving everybody forward. We’re expecting a large crowd today.”

  Blindly she found herself a space and sat. Her knees bonked the wooden pew box when she did, which jostled a row of Baptist hymnals, a stack of welcome cards, and a multitude of those short, stubby yellow pencils that plunked on the floor and rolled everywhere. She waved at Uncle Cy and Jane across the way. She settled herself, yanking her skirt straight so it covered her stockings, glancing around as if she couldn’t figure out who on earth had dropped all those pencils.

  Lydia couldn’t help overhearing the whispered conversation of the two little ladies on her left. “Can you move over, Trudy? It’s so tight in here, I’m having trouble reaching my pocketbook.”

  “Pastor Joe wouldn’t l
ike that one bit.”

  “It’s homecoming weekend. We don’t have enough seats for all these extra people.”

  “Well, I don’t like it one bit. I always sit in the second pew over there.”

  “I know. Somebody’s sitting in my place too.”

  “It’s more than that and you know it. You read the newspaper this morning. Small town, big trauma. Everybody heads to the nearest pew.”

  Lydia glanced up and saw Charlie walking up the aisle toward her. She knew he saw her, too, before her eyes dodged away. She turned forward again, waiting for him, her hand on the pew, her heart pounding.

  As he came close, her gaze rose to him. Charlie was very tall. The broad shoulders of his dress suit, his pendulous tie, the questions in his eyes, loomed over her head.

  The crisp October morning striking in through the open door, the smell of cured grass and sweet leaves, and the immense crash of the organ playing “Blessed Assurance, Jesus Is Mine!” The entire town was watching. And you can never plan the things you’ll say.

  Her words rushed out before either of them had the chance to fling up walls. Before either of them had the chance to measure what they’d said before, what they’d thought, how they’d hurt each other.

  “How are you?” her heart rushing forward with her words. “How are you holding out?”

  “What about you, Lyddie?”

  In the few odd seconds while they stared at each other, neither of them realized they had only asked questions, they hadn’t answered them.

  Over the scent of the wax-polished pews, Lydia could smell mint, soap, cool skin, a Luden’s cough drop. “I didn’t know you were coming today, Charlie.” She cringed at her own voice. She made it sound like she was questioning whether he belonged.

  He moved the Luden’s from one side of his mouth to the other. She saw his tongue, dyed cough-drop orange. She saw his eyes go dark against her question that spoke of blame. But all of her questions, all of her thoughts, spoke of blame these days. The pain surged between them like an electrical charge. “The new boat,” he said, and maybe he was partially honest about this or maybe he wasn’t. “I needed to be here today to thank somebody for the boat.”

  “Oh.”

  He began to finger his tie. “Lydia?” And the entire length of his sentence, she fought herself to keep from shaking her head. No. No. Don’t ask it, Charlie. Please.

  “You can’t sit here,” she said, stopping him. “I promised I’d sit with Shelby.”

  Embarrassed, he looked around the sanctuary over her head, fast, as if he realized he had no right to be with her. She reached to touch his coat sleeve but he jerked it away. She wanted to cry out to him, but she couldn’t. This isn’t the place where anyone ought to be taking any stands.

  “I’m sorry.” And words alone could never have said how sorry she was.

  Charlie had friends who were gesturing to him from the opposite row. Come over and sit with us. Patting the seat to make him feel welcome.

  “I’ll just—” He clapped one fist awkwardly against his hand, snapped his fingers. He backed up, pointed in his friend’s general vicinity. “I guess I’ll just sit over there.”

  The choir had begun to file in. The conversations, which moments ago had been buzzing around her, stopped. Suddenly Lydia had room to breathe. Since Charlie had paused to speak to her, it seemed that everyone else had scooted three inches away.

  At the front of the sanctuary, the choir members began to sing “Holy, Holy, Holy” with lifted voices and outspread hands. During the entire length of their Call To Worship, Lydia didn’t hear any of the words to the song at all. She was only aware of the man who sat four rows in front of her and to the right, his hair barely touching his shirt collar, his shoulders held self-consciously square. She watched until he stood suddenly to speak to an usher. She jerked her attention to the creases in her hand.

  Charlie must have forgotten to pick up a church bulletin in the foyer. When he stepped out to get one, he came face to face with Tom and Tamara Olin, who were entering with Shelby.

  Tamara gasped and yanked Shelby low against her chest, covering her child’s head with her arms.

  Tom Olin wrenched sideways, wagging his finger. “You! How could you be in a church today? After what you’ve done to my stepdaughter?”

  His voice measured, Charlie said, “I did not do what she says I did.”

  “Tom.” Tamara gripped his arm. “Stop. Don’t do this here.”

  “I ought to haul off and punch you out right now.”

  “Charlie.” Somebody gripped him by the arm. “The service has started.”

  “Tom,” one of the deacons said, “this isn’t going to do any good.”

  Someone pulled Charlie down.

  Someone pulled Tom down.

  Probably a hundred and twenty-some-odd hearts were pounding as Shelby searched the pews for her counselor and plastered herself against Lydia’s side.

  After that, Charlie sat still as a post. The tops of his ears, which curled over like the tops of snapdragon blossoms, flushed bright red. Once, he reached to scratch the nape of his neck between his hair and his shirt collar. A thin, oblong slash of sun fell across his shoulders like a bandage.

  Lydia made herself turn away.

  The Brownbranch glinted toward the east in the view out the window. The only thing that stretched further and fiercer than the sky was the emptiness inside her soul.

  The sermon passed in a blur. When she noticed Pastor Joe kept glancing in her direction, Lydia edged the other way, out of his line of sight. Still the pastor’s voice boomed toward her, quoting words that she might have once believed, that she might have once clung to.

  And, in spite of the heated sermon, the powerful words, the promise of courage, churchgoers’ whispers came in quick succession behind her. “. . . Mathis isn’t in his usual place… neither is Mo Eden’s family… how about the Bakers?… What are you doing sitting over here?”

  Be quiet, she wanted to cry out. Can’t you just listen and not care so much about everybody else’s business?

  “. . . isn’t like a wedding where you sit behind the bride or the groom.… of course it isn’t.… much more important than that.”

  When Lydia began to follow their conversation, she recognized two or three childhood friends of Charlie’s sitting to the left of the aisle.

  She recognized business associates of Tamara Olin’s sitting to the right.

  Charlie’s great aunt sat folding a lace handkerchief over one knee, happily occupying space to the left of the aisle.

  Tommy Ballard and his mother had been seated to the right.

  Addy Michaels and her grandson had been seated to the left.

  Barbara Krug, Tom Olin’s Place-Perfect Real Estate secretary, spritzed cologne lightly on both wrists, sending up a cloud of Emeraude from the right.

  Lydia’s whole self began trembling with anger. Even before Charlie and Shelby had arrived, people must have started sitting beside people they agreed with. People were sitting on separate sides.

  Lydia had her hands on the back of the pew to rise, pressing herself up off of the seat to go she-didn’t-know-where.

  Maybe just to stand in the middle. Maybe just to stand right smack dab in the center of the aisle.

  Her anger and her sense of injustice propelled her to stand. Just walk away, Lydia. Keep your head down. Just step sideways past everybody’s knees and don’t tread on anybody’s feet. She stumbled over Tamara’s purse and felt Tom catch her elbow to steady her.

  “Miss P,” Shelby whispered. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, Shelby,” she whispered back. “I just have to get out of this place.”

  By this time, Joe Douglas had stepped away from the pulpit and stood at the altar with loving, outstretched arms, his sleeves billowing out like the wings of a crow. The choir members, with upraised chests and pursed mouths, were humming “Just As I Am.” One-hundred-and-twenty-some-odd heads were already ducking and
peeking to see if someone might be accepting Jesus Christ as Lord, opening a place for Him in their hearts. The music director had already taken them through the a cappella hymn three times.

  All those people looking, waiting, expecting someone to stand and walk forward to accept.

  Lydia had done that a long time ago. When she’d been a little girl. When she’d thought He’d be big enough to make things work out the way they were supposed to. When she’d thought that to believe in Him dying on the cross meant happy endings. Fairy tales.

  When Lydia reached the aisle, she didn’t start toward the pulpit, as many people had expected, or stand in the middle of the sanctuary which, in her anger, she had thought she might do.

  This is all we are, Lord. We’re people; we walk around screwing things up.

  With Charlie Stains and Shelby Tatum and Uncle Cy and everybody else in Shadrach wondering what she was doing, Lydia turned and left through the front door.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Two dusty blue Caprice Classics with the Shadrach city crest on their sides drove up to Charlie Stains’s small house Monday morning, and parked. Blue flashers turned lethargically, the color bending across lower tree limbs even in the brightest Shadrach sun. Doors opened. Uniformed men unfolded and climbed out. They left their doors open, radios crackling.

  Addy Michael, who had been raking maple leaves into a pile in her front yard, paused with the rake handle gripped in both hands. Raymond Ashby, who kept three dried corncobs hanging from a limb to feed the squirrels, picked that moment to step out into his yard and replenish the supply. On the sidewalk where George Nagle and Red Christensen’s discussion of the church sermon yesterday had quickly become skewed into a discussion of the fishing weather, both men stopped and stared.

  Politely but purposefully, their insignia gleaming, their belts creaking, their shoes making castanet snaps on the pavement, the four officers walked forward and waited for Charlie to answer the door.