11
Oldenburg Rural Chapel
Thomas had not expected his discussion with Paul Pierce to go smoothly, but this was absurd. The man was still sitting there, in the pastor’s office, arguing point by point why his plan to supervise the other churches made more sense than Thomas’s doing it himself.
“I’ll explain myself one more time, Paul, if I must. I’ll be at each location every week. They don’t want to feel like sister churches or daughter churches of this one, and frankly, I’m sensing you have personally alienated some of them.”
“I have? Me? Tell me one person who’s said that, and I’ll tell you why.”
Thomas shook his head. “Now, Paul, I’m going to have to ask that you defer to me as your pastor on this. I deeply appreciate all your help, and Grace and I cannot deny that you and Patricia have gone the extra mile in getting us settled in and making us feel welcome. . . .”
“But you don’t need me anymore.”
Oh, for the love . . .
Thomas had run into this type before—perhaps not as stage-mom brash as Paul Pierce, but the kind that resorted to cheap tactics when not getting his way. Paul sat there looking and sounding like a big baby. He had summarized Thomas’s position by exaggerating it to the ridiculous. And he wasn’t finished.
“If you’d rather Patricia and I just show up for services and sit in the back and don’t even attempt to come alongside and help, fine.”
Thomas almost fell for the trick, nearly jumping in to reassure Paul that that wasn’t what he wished at all. But fortunately, perhaps because of Grace’s praying, he kept his senses.
“Here’s what I want, Paul, if you really want to help. I want you to not take this personally—”
“How can I not?”
“—and I want you to be willing to agree to disagree but defer to me as your shepherd.”
“I’ve been here for decades, Tom! I—”
“And I want you to continue in your leadership role in this church, teaching me the ropes, handling the logistics . . .”
Forest View High School
The Norths were hard to miss. Besides looking too young to be the parents of a high school senior, they looked like they belonged on the cover of some fashion magazine. Alex’s dad actually had a cashmere sweater slung over his back, the sleeves tied in front.
A little girl was distracting Alex’s mom by running all over the place, and more than once the woman had to retrieve her and make her sit. A few minutes later she was gone again, apparently as soon as her mother became engrossed in Alex’s performance.
And Alex was good, playing perfectly the whiny musical agent beset by an overbearing mother. Brady had to admit that Alex rose to the occasion and actually exhibited some urgent compassion for his own Conrad Birdie character. Maybe they could pull this off after all, despite all that was already between them offstage.
Brady felt good about his own performance too, though he knew Mr. N. would notice how many times he peeked out at the house. He was just trying to get a read on the family dynamic, dreading the staged meeting.
Interestingly, Mr. Nabertowitz found some errand for Alex when that time came, then made it appear he had just thought of the introduction. “Oh, Mr. and Mrs. North, I want you to meet our Conrad Birdie. This is Brady Darby.”
Mr. North thrust out his hand, seeming to measure the boy with his eyes. Without a smile, he said, “Jordan North, Alex’s father. And this is my wife, Carole. Alex’s sister, Katie, is running around here somewhere.”
“She’s right behind me, actually,” Mrs. North said, turning to try to pull the girl into view.
Katie peeked at Brady and smiled. “He’s cool!”
Brady felt himself redden, and ignoring that Mrs. North had not of- fered her hand, he reached for it anyway, resulting in an awkward pause. He realized his mistake and was pulling away when she seemed to reluctantly reach for his hand. He laughed and shook her hand, but it was limp as a soggy newspaper, and Brady could see he repulsed her.
“Alex says you live in a trailer,” Katie said from behind her mother’s leg.
“Katie, hush,” Mrs. North said quickly as Brady’s smile disappeared.
“Well, do you?” Katie insisted.
“A trailer? Yeah, right! Do you?”
Mr. Nabertowitz jumped in. “I just thought you all should meet, since Alex and Brady will be working together, and—”
“We live in a mansion!” little Katie said.
“I’ll bet you do,” Brady said, somehow gathering himself. “Anyway, nice to meet you all. Alex is really good.”
“Thank you,” Mr. North said. Mrs. North was looking elsewhere.
When they moved away, Katie was still standing there smiling shyly at Brady. “I’m nine,” she said. “You date younger women?”
Not rich little wenches like you. “You kidding?”
“Of course, silly. I bet you do live in a trailer.”
“No costume tonight, Conrad?” someone trilled on the activities bus.
Brady had been furious to have to carry his sopping clothes home in a plastic bag after his audition, wearing his leather jacket over the suit. It may have been dramatic and won him the part, but it made him look like an idiot offstage.
Brady had learned not to even turn to see who needed a beating. He just kept reading his script, knowing he should be studying. He amazed himself with how much he had already memorized, and he couldn’t argue with Mr. Nabertowitz that if he applied that same skill to schoolwork, he wouldn’t have anything to worry about.
Soon, however, he found himself unable to concentrate as he ran over and over in his mind the meeting with the Norths and their bratty daughter.
Brady was surprised to see his mother home from work already. It bothered him that she was usually out at all hours of the night with her boss-slash-boyfriend, but at least that way he didn’t have to worry she’d be putting her hands on Petey when Brady wasn’t there. He sure hoped Peter would tell him if she did, but the boy knew Brady had threatened her, so who knew if he was hiding something?
She was yelling at Peter when Brady entered.
“Zip it, Ma!” Brady said.
“I’m tired of him sitting around playing video games all the time!” she said. “He ought to be doing something productive!”
“Like you?”
“Don’t start with me, Brady.”
“He’s eight, Ma. Get off his case. It’s almost his bedtime anyway—as if you’d know.”
“You’re gonna stop being smart with me, Brady.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“By the way, you must be in trouble.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Mr. Tatlock called. Wants to see you at the Laundromat right away.”
“I’m not due there till ten.”
“He said now. What’d you do?”
“Tried to burn the place down, what do you think? C’mon, would I do something wrong at the only place I get any money?”
“Just get over there.”
Oldenburg
“I’m proud of you, Thomas,” Grace said, sounding as tired as she looked. “It sounds as if the Lord gave you the words and the courage to say them.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think Paul is happy.”
“Men like Paul are used to getting their own way.”
“Yes, and when they don’t . . .”
“Let’s let tomorrow take care of tomorrow.”
“You think I should let them have the installation service?”
“Of course! You deserve it.”
“You know better than that.”
“Well, I think you do, but even if you don’t, just give the Lord the glory and let the people welcome you.”
He shrugged. “Paul may have lost his enthusiasm for the idea by now.”
“Drop one of his own brainstorms? Somehow I doubt it.”
“Well, I’m certainly not going to ask about it,” Thomas said. “If it happens, it happens.”
“Like I said, let tomorrow take care of tomorrow. Now, you know what I’d like to do tonight?”
“Tell me.”
“I’d like to sing.”
Thomas had to smile, despite the tough day and his worry over Rav and his wife. Grace had the sweetest demeanor and a voice to go with it. He could carry a tune, but Grace sang like an angel. “What do you want to sing, ma’am?” he said with a twinkle.
And Grace began softly, “On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross. . . .”
The Laundromat
A short man in his midthirties with dark curls, Tatlock had spoken personally with Brady only twice since the day he hired him. He had spent half a day training Brady and had checked in on him just one other time, when customers complained that Brady was speeding through his cleaning routine and leaving the place a mess. They were right, and Brady had straightened up.
“I’ve been doing better with the dusting and sweeping, sir,” Brady said as they sat across from each other at a small table in the back room. “Hope you’ve noticed.”
“I have, and I appreciate that, son. What I don’t appreciate is that while we have clearly seen an increase in business, I’m making less profit than ever. How do you account for that?”
“Oh . . . well . . . I’m never here during the day, so you couldn’t prove it by me that we have any more or less customers than before.”
“Are you this stupid, Darby? Do you really not suspect that I inventory the wash and dry cycles I sell here every day? You think I don’t keep track of how many boxes of detergent and softener I put in the dispensers each week? This is a low-maintenance but also very low-margin, high-risk business. It’s all about volume.”
“You keep track of the washings and dryings?”
“Of course! The machines have built-in counters. And the boxed goods? That’s easy. I know exactly how many I buy and how much I make on each one. Last month I barely made a profit. There’s only one explanation.”
“You accusing me of something?”
“There’s nobody else here.”
Brady rose quickly, towering over the man.
Tatlock slowly stood. “You’re going to pay me back, Brady.”
“I’m gonna tear you up.”
The man held up a hand and spoke softly. “Before you even try, do you recall my telling you my other business?”
“What do I care?”
“It matters. Do you need me to remind you?”
“You teach kids or something.”
“I teach, all right. I run a karate school. You think I learned that from a book? My glory days are long past, but I could kill you with one hand. Look at my hands. Go on, look.”
They looked meaty enough. Maybe he was telling the truth.
“Shake my hand, son, like you did the day I hired you and you promised to treat this place like your own. Problem is, you really did. But it’s not your own, is it? Now shake my hand.”
Brady felt like a fool, but he reached out. Tatlock’s hand seemed twice as thick as his, and it was calloused. The man gripped firmly.
“I won’t hurt you, but you can tell I could, can’t you?”
Brady shrugged and nodded. There was no future in challenging this guy. “Well, I’m innocent. I don’t know where your money is, and since you obviously don’t believe me, I quit.”
“It’s not that easy. You owe me at least two hundred dollars. It’s probably a lot more, but that’s what I’ll settle for. And that’s the only thing that’s going to keep me from calling the cops. Now give me your keys. You’ve got three days to get me the money.”
Two hundred was all Brady had left in his car fund, but he didn’t want to risk actually answering to the police. Not when the musical was in rehearsal and he had to do something about his schoolwork.
“What’d he want?” his mother said.
“He wants me to work more hours; you believe that? I can’t with schoolwork and the play and all.”
“You could use the money.”
“Forget it! I quit.”
“Tell me you didn’t!”
“I did. He’s an idiot. Thinks I can work an extra hour each night. No way.”
“You’d double your money, Brady! Don’t be a fool. Tell him you’ll do it.”
“Too late. I already quit.”
“You’re an idiot. What’re you gonna do for money?”
“I’ll find something when the play’s over.”
“And you’re gonna mooch off me till then? No way.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
Brady knew he should study, but even his script wasn’t inviting as he undressed for bed. He was jittery, and a cigarette didn’t help. He wanted to sneak over to Stevie Ray’s for a beer, but when he had returned the guitar the other night, they had wound up drinking till dawn and he’d suffered a hangover the next day. No more of that.
He dug around in the closet for his stash and found less than five dollars.
“Ma! Where’s my money?”
“Be quiet or you’ll wake up your brother!”
“I don’t care! Now where is it?”
“Don’t ask me! I didn’t even know you had money.”
“Yeah, right. You didn’t take my car fund?”
“I don’t need your money!”
“Well, somebody took it! What am I supposed to live on till I find a job?”
“That’s your problem. You’re the one who quit.”
“If I find out you took it, I swear—”
“Oh, please. Stop threatening me, Brady. It’s getting old.”
He slammed the door in her face and flopped onto the bed. Something made him grab his long, greasy hair and pull as hard as he could. He screamed into his pillow, but nothing could lessen the rage. He wanted to hurt someone. He didn’t know who, and he didn’t care. The kids who soaked his clothes? The girl who had accused him of stealing? Alex? He could take that kid’s head off without a second thought. North’s snotty family? Tatlock? Funny thing about him: he was right. Brady was ashamed, humiliated, caught.
Problem was, where was he going to get two hundred now?