"As the dew and the rain are given first to cause the seed to germinate, and then to ripen the harvest, so the Holy Spirit is given to carry forward, from one stage to another, the process of spiritual growth. The ripening of the grain represents the completion of the work of God’s grace in the soul. By the power of the Holy Spirit the moral image of God is to be perfected in the character. We are to be wholly transformed into the likeness of Christ." 31
While George and Sally were talking over
dinner, LuCinda came flouncing into the kitchen, her long hair
flying out behind her like the tail of a kite. “Where’s
Billy,” she demanded of her mother, “I haven’t
seen him in several hours.”
“He’s staying over night with
Gustov,” her mother replied, as she busied herself with the
supper dishes.
“What’s gotten into him lately.
He tried to convert me the other evening, I think he’s becoming
quite the little missionary.”
Her mother caught the sarcasm in LuCinda’s
voice but decided not to reprimand her. “He’s changed,”
she said, drying the last dish and placing it in the cupboard.
“I think I like him better this way then he was before the
fire. At least he’s not so foolish.”
LuCinda laughed. “There are different
ways of being foolish,” she replied.
Her mother caught her meaning. Your cynical
this evening. Been out with that scruffy looking guy again?”
LuCinda bridled at the unflattering description
of her boyfriend. “He’s my boyfriend, and I like him.”
Her mother, dish towel in hand, turned to
face her rebellious daughter, “What’s gotten into you
lately? It seems like your on edge all the time.”
LuCinda swore, “leave me alone,”
she blurted out, “can’t I have my own life without my
parents interfering?”
Now it was Grace’s turn to bridle,
but she bit her tongue instead. “I’m sorry, LuCinda,
perhaps I was too harsh with your boyfriend. I just sense that
something is wrong and want to help.”
LuCinda turned and stomped out of the kitchen
without speaking to her mother.
Grace sighed, carefully folded the towel
and laid it on the counter. I wish George were here, she thought,
maybe he could talk some sense into his daughter. Why does he
have to work so late every Thursday? O well, she sighed again,
at least he keeps the bills paid.
She sat down in front of the television
and turned on the nightly news. Scenes of carnage and slaughter
met her glance. All those innocent people killed without a moments
notice, and they said terrorism wouldn’t come to America.
The unexpected plunge in the stock market was the next story but
she wasn’t interested in financial news, the stock market
bored her. Maybe George could enlighten her about the intricacies
of stocks and bonds, but she didn’t see how something as
remote as the stock market could effect their lives. Laying aside
the emery board, she had used to file her nails,, she critically
examined each nail for imperfections. A woman reporter appeared
next to describe the growing concerns of health authorities in
rural parts of Alabama, Georgia, North and South Carolina, and
Tennessee over the prevalence of cholera and dysentery as an aftermath
of hurricane Fay. A severe outbreak of cholera was recorded in
the Asheville area while fears of a Small Pox epidemic were growing
in Charlotte. Grace was bored with the news, so she turned the
channel to the “Wheel of Fortune.”
“Ma,” LuCinda yelled from the
doorway, “can I talk to you?”
“She wants to talk to me,” Grace
muttered under her breath as she rose from her chair, turning
off the television. At last, someone wants to talk to me.”
That wasn’t very charitable, she thought, as she headed toward
LuCinda’s bedroom. What’s getting into me, lately, should
be the question.
She sat in LuCinda’s favorite chair,
while her daughter sprawled on the bed, kicking her heels in a
lazy manner that irritated Grace, thumbing through a magazine
in studied indifference.
Her mother took a deep breath, tried to
ignore the calculated goad of her daughter, and searched for something
to say to break the impasse. If LuCinda wanted to talk to her,
she would listen, for her daughter rarely had anything to say
to her mother that wasn’t couched in cynicism or bitterness.
To say that mother and daughter didn’t get alone, was an
understatement.
“Are you going to that party, this
weekend,” she inquired, with just the right amount of interest
in her voice without seeming to pry into her daughter’s affairs.
“Don’t know,” her daughter
answered evasively.
This wasn’t getting anywhere, Grace
thought. Trying another tact, she said, “I wish Dad didn’t
have to work so late tonight, there’s a good movie on television
that he might enjoy watching.
She missed her daughter’s wicked smile,
hidden as it was behind the magazine. With studied casualness,
she commented, “Dad’s not working.”
“Of course he is,” Grace replied.
“Every Thursday he has to prepare a weekly report, something
to do with compliance with federal regulations that keeps him
busy for several hours.”
“Dad’s not working.”
Her mother looked inquisitively at her daughter
who still had her face hidden behind the magazine to cover her
widening smirk.
Despite herself, she retorted, “since
you know everything, tell me, what is he doing?”
“He’s making it with his secretary.”
“Making what?”
“Mother, come on,” she said, turning
to face her, “you know what I mean, don’t act so naive.
You were an attractive woman once upon a time.”
This retort stunned Grace, she opened her
mouth to reply but LuCinda continued.
As if explaining to a dull witted child,
she carefully enunciated the words. “He’s having sex
with his secretary. You know what sex is. Well he’s doing
it with her every Thursday night.”
Grace was silent for a long moment. What
do you say when your own daughter accuses her father of adultery,
especially when you have suspected it for years.
“And you haven’t had sex with
your boyfriend,” she flung back at her daughter.
LuCinda laughed. “Yes, I’ve had
sex, Ma, and you know I have. I’ve had sex lots and lots
of times, what teenager my age hasn’t?”
“Don’t look so stunned,”
she continued. “Kids have been having sex for hundreds of
years, why I bet you and Dad made it together in the back seat
of your horse and buggy.”
Between clenched teeth, Grace responded,
“We didn’t have horses and buggies, we did it in the
back seat of his Ford.”
LuCinda rolled over on her back, tossed
the magazine in the direction of the wastebasket and laughed again.
“What kind of lay was he?”
“Shut your mouth,” Grace retorted.
“You want me to tell you what kind
of lay he is,” LuCinda responded?
“How would you know, Grace said, falling
into the cleverly laid trap of her daughter.
“I know because Daddy laid me.”
Grace’s mouth fell open in horror while
her hands shook and a slight twitch appeared in the muscles of
her left cheek.
“Listen here, young lady, your fooling
has gone far enough,” Grace fairly shouted. “I know
you and Dad don’t get along well but to accuse him of incest,
that’s gone too far, I won’t hear of it.”
LuCinda jumped up from her bed and glared
at her mother. “You think I’m making jokes. Next time
he gets you in bed, pull down his pants and look at his right
thigh, there’s this little mark, he calls it a birth mark,
looks like an arrowhead, black with some cream color to it. Now
you think I’m making jokes?”
Grace’s look of consternation was full
satisfaction for LuCinda. She smirked openly at her mother then
flung herself upon her bed, kicking her feet against the wall,
as she taunted her.
“He used to come into my room at night,
he said he wanted to cuddle me ‘cause I might be afraid of
the dark,” she said sarcastically. “We would talk, you
know, Daddy and little daughter stuff, then he would lay down
beside me and kind of hold me, and stuff.”
She watched her mother’s reactions
to these revelations, trying to prolong her agony. “Then
he would kiss me, saying how much he loved me, and tickle me.
It felt real good and I liked father being so close to me and
the things he did made me feel so grown up. Did he ever do those
things to you? I bet not. I bet he doesn’t love you the way
he loved me. Made me feel like a woman, the way he makes Sally
feel. He’s real good at that.”
Grace bowed her head, intently examining
her nails, spreading the fingers, checking for cracks in the polish,
massaging the cuticle of her left ring finger, saying nothing.
Plunging the knife into her mother’s
heart, LuCinda proceeded to twist it, slowly, a little at a time.
“He would buy me such cute things to wear, you know, lingerie,
a teddy, said I looked better to him then his own wife. He preferred
me to having sex with you. He said you bored him, weren’t
exciting enough for his taste. That’s when he told me about
Sally. He said she was real exciting, did stuff that you wouldn’t
do.”
Grace burst into tears, covering her face
with her hands.
LuCinda had the satisfaction of knowing
that her mother believed her.
“You sure know how to hurt a person,”
Grace cried softly behind her hands. “What did I ever do
to you to hurt me like this?”
“You didn’t stop Daddy. If you
had been the kind of woman he needed, the kind of woman you ought
to have been, he wouldn’t have used me.”
Grace was decimated by this cutting retort.
“It’s not my fault,” she said softly. “I can’t
stop from doing whatever he wants.”
“Don’t give me that,” LuCinda
snorted in contempt. “Any good woman, who has what it takes,
can satisfy her husband. Your my mother. You could have stopped
him, you could have stopped him,” she said over and over
again.
When her mother didn’t respond, she
continued, “And you say your a Christian. Daddy’s not
a Christian. You expect things like that from him, but you say
you are a Christian, but you didn’t stop him or please him.
You could have kept him away from me by being a better women.”
“LuCinda, I’m sorry, I’m
so sorry,” she wailed, tears flowing down her cheeks.
“Don’t be sorry, its too late
for that, its too late for your religion, its too late for everything,
its too late for me. Why don’t you feel sorry for me. I’m
the one who was hurt. I hate Dad and I hate you and I hate God
for letting this thing happen.”
Her faith deserted Grace. She felt abandoned
and alone. “What can I say, LuCinda, except I’m sorry,”
she repeated, still covering her face with her well manicured
hands, her left cheek muscles twitching in visible spasms.
LuCinda no longer felt satisfaction as she
witnessed the effect of the crushing blow upon her mother. Some
spark of humanity, some flicker of kindness still burned in her
bosom. “Ma, I didn’t mean to hurt you this bad,”
she lied. “I wanted to tell you for several years, but you
never seemed interested in listening to me. You were always so
busy with church things and your other friends that you never
had time for me.”
Grasping a Kleenex, with a pleading expression
on her face, Grace cried, “its not too late, LuCinda, please,
its not too late. If you’ll forgive me, maybe we can make
it up.”
Her daughter sighed, “No, Ma, its too
late for making things up, cause you see, I’m pregnant.”
Grace searched for words, but her mind failed
her again. Confusion! What does a parent say to her daughter when
she makes an announcement like this?
“I don’t know what to say, Grace
confessed, dropping her hands into her lap,” in resignation.
“So don’t say nothin’. The
time for saying is past. I’m a woman, now, just like you.
I don’t need for you to say nothin’.”
So Grace didn’t say anything.
Mother and daughter remained silent for
long moments, listening to the mournful sound of a train whistle
though the growing darkness, LuCinda lay in utter despondency.
Her revenge no longer so sweet, while Grace, her world collapsed
around her, wondered whether she could go on living as if nothing
had changed.
“I’m going to bed,” LuCinda
said, effectively dismissing her mother who rose to leave. “Remember,
Ma,” she taunted one last time, “the mark on his right
thigh, its shaped like an arrowhead.”
Grace, dazed and confused, walked toward
the bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet and fumbled among
the bottles. vellum, yes that will do.”
Bottle in hand, with a glass of water, she
stumbled into her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. “God,
help me,” she cried! “I trusted you when everything
was going well, now I need you.”
She stared at the bottle in her hand, rotated
it slowly back and forth, read its label, and listened to, to
what Nothing, just the mournful hoot of a distant train. No voice
from the Lord commanding her not to take the pills, no flash of
light or other manifestation of her Savior to caution her away
from the dark pit that even now yawned before her feet like a
bottomless abyss.
A song begun to form in her mind. The strains
of its soft melody filled her heart and, involuntarily, she began
softly to sing its sweet words. “On a hill far away, stood
an old rugged cross, the emblem of suffering and shame.”
58
Her voice choked with tears and sadness.
Overwhelmed with loneliness, despair, shattered dreams and hopes
she clung to the cross in desperation. “I love that old cross
where the dearest and best.”
She couldn’t go on. Dropping the bottle,
she fell to her knees beside the bed, and clung to it like a rope
thrown to a drowning sailor. “For a world of lost sinners
was slain.” She could scarcely speak the old familiar words
let alone actually sing them. Choking with despair she cried out,
“Lord, save me,” almost overwhelmed with despair. “So
I’ll cherish the old rugged cross...” Is this how Christ
felt, she wondered, dying for a world that hated Him, that despised
and turned upon Him with hatred and revenge. What must He have
felt, she wondered, from the depths of her despair? “Dear,
Lord, save me,” she pleaded again, “I’m drowning.”
“Till my trophies at last I lay down,
I will cling..,” she cried, tears falling upon the bed, but
she forced herself to continue the song, “I will cling to
the old rugged cross and exchange it some day for a crown.”
The sweetest melody filled her heart, she
would cling to the old rugged cross, no matter what happened.
Her Savior died there for her and it was there that she looked
for and found solace.
Spontaneously, she burst into song from
springs hidden deep within her heart. Struggling to her feet,
she cleared her throat and offered her praise to the Lord, “I
serve a risen Savior, He’s in the world today; I know that
He is living whatever man may say; I see His hand of mercy, I
hear His voice of cheer, and just the time I need him He’s
always near.” 59
Now, strong with confidence, rising her
voice in sweetest harmony, she sang, again, “He lives, He
lives, Christ Jesus lives today. He walks with me and talks with
me, along life’s narrow way.”
Joy filled her heart, courage returned,
life was worth living after all for her Savior had walked this
path before her and made it bright with His presence. Now fully
confident of the future, Grace lifted her voice in full throated
praise and finished the chorus. “He lives, He lives, salvation
to impart. You ask me how I know He lives, He lives within my
heart.”
LuCinda listened from the other room. Her
own heart thrilled with hope and joy, but, no, she turned away,
it was too late. It was too late for her, she cried over and over
again. She would not believe the message of hope. With heart hardened
against His pleadings of mercy, LuCinda fell asleep
Awakening, some time later, LuCinda sensed
a presence in her bedroom. There was a shadow at the end of her
bed. He was back, but this time, there were others with him. They
silently stared at her, mists curling about their forms, shadows
shifting between light and dark.
LuCinda shuddered with terror. Not peaceful
or amusing this time, they seemed clothed with fear. She clutched
at her throat, choking, unable to draw a full inspiration, her
lungs bound about with bands of iron.
The men leered at her, alternately drawing
closer then vanishing, only to reappear in another part of her
room. Elusive, yet present, they seemed to shower her with fear
and a nameless dread. Frantic for air, she gasped and pleaded
with them to allow her to breath, but they continued to float
before her eyes, as she clawed the air.
A fresh breeze blew through the open window.
The specters vanished. Her lungs were free to inhale pure night
air. She sank back upon her bed, pulling the covers up to her
chin, as a little child would do when frightened by shadows upon
the walls that moved mysteriously. A frightened little girl, LuCinda
stared into the darkness, intently watching and listening, fearful
they would return. The breeze freshened, the curtains stirred
at the window, and she slept.
* * *
Big John reclined on his sofa, lazily throwing
darts at a picture of President Clinton hanging from the opposite
wall. One dart protruded from his left eye while another stuck
out of his nose. This amused Big John. Not that he cared for politicians
but that he took a perverse delight in hurting people.
He was bored. Restlessly, Big John wondered
around his apartment. Like a caged tiger, muscles rippling under
his tawny coat, snarls of rage emanating from its throat, Big
John walked back and fourth, back and fourth. Glancing out of
the window at the rain, he scowled in rage. The evening was late,
cold rain was falling, and he was restless.
He cursed himself for his moment of stupidity
when he sang that silly song with his friends over a bottle of
beer. It was the beer, it had to be the beer. It did things to
people that they later regretted.
He paused from his pacing, as the strains
of the simple melody sounded in his brain. “Jesus loves me.”
He scoffed. Sure He does, he thought, just like He loves Stanley
and Erny. As a detached observer, he watched them drinking beer
and playing cards. Erny, the drug dealer, Stanley, the pimp, and
himself, muscle for hire. In this group of hardened men, love
was as foreign to them as snowballs in Miami in July.
But stranger things had happened before.
He listened, in detached fascination, to their impromptu chorus.
With a fourth man present, they might just make a credible barber
shop quartet. What would they call themselves? The Sinners. The
Daisies.
Then he laughed in amusement. Maybe Creeper
might join them. Wouldn’t that be queer? A preacher, a pimp,
a drug dealer, and an enforcer.
Big John stopped his pacing and listened
to Erny. He had a nice base voice. With a little training, he
might just amount to something. This amused him again. Erny amounting
to something. Boyhood memories returned to trouble Big John’s
mind. Such hopes and aspirations. He wanted to be a rocket scientist
or an astronaut riding on top of flaming rockets bound for the
stars. Foolishness! But was it foolish to dream, to aspire to
be something. Big John wasn’t proud of himself. Hurting people
for a living wasn’t exactly something to aspire to. Jesus
Loves me! He wondered if Creeper liked his work, liked preaching
to jeering crowds in the part. Big John shrugged his shoulders.
Maybe he would ask him.
