Sweet Caroline(53)

Reaching in his hip pocket, Stu pulls out the bill and tosses it to the desk. “It cost a little more than I thought.”

“Naturally.” Squinting, I unfold the paper. Boing! “A little more. Stu, it’s an extra nine hundred. Thirteen thousand dollars.”

Over the past few weeks, I managed to save three thousand for this auspicious day, plus pay Buster a grand, barely wheedling down his bill. I stare so long at the bottom line, my vision blurs.

“Caroline?”

I snap to attention. “Yeah, sorry, just thinking. Can you come around for the check tomorrow?” Because tonight I’m going to pull out all my teeth, stuff them under my pillow, and expect the Tooth Fairy to pay big dividends.

“Sure. I’ll be by in the afternoon.”

“Thanks for everything, Stu.”

He leaves and I close the office door, plop down in the desk chair, and run my fingers over my tired eyes.

Jesus, can You help me? Please.

How does one listen for an answer from the Almighty?

“Caroline, need you out here.” It’s Andy. Yeah, for a nanosecond, I thought Jesus sounded like a friend of mine.

Guess He’s leaving this problem in my bailiwick. I shove out of the chair. “Coming.”

By the time we close, I still don’t have any idea how I’m going to pay Stu. I walk across the parking lot, noticing how the sunlight dances across the Mustang. Poor girl, been sitting there so long. I should take her out . . .

I stop. From nowhere, an alien thought crashes over my heart. My gut tightens. No.

As I stand staring at Matilda, the wind gushes from the river, lifting the limbs of the car’s live-oak canopy. Matilda is draped in sunlight. I glance overhead. Did someone cut down a tree?

More light. More wind. The thought streams again. Sell.

No! “Listen, Jesus, if this is You, forget it. Dad couldn’t convince me, nor Henry, and quite frankly, I’m positive they exist and love me—well, Daddy does; jury’s out on Henry—so don’t come knocking on this door. If this is some divine idea— You’re off by a country mile.”

But even after a quick, refreshing shower, I’m still nagged by the ear-lier encounter. No, I say to no one. My own stubborn thoughts, maybe.

Slipping into a comfy Liz Claiborne top and skirt, I wander into the living room. The evening seems empty and ominous. I walk along the bookshelves, reading the spines of Jones’s collection.

Dickens, Twain, Faulkner, James, Austin— I stop. Austin? Jones, you old romantic. He has several of her works. A couple of Steinbecks, and Grisham, Clancy . . . figures. The Bible. Jones’s Bible.

Hesitating, I reach for the worn leather book. Pages slip, almost falling to the ground, when I look inside. Just about every one is marked with scribbles in Jones’s broad, round script. The back half of the book is so marked I can barely read the text. Almost every verse is highlighted with yellow, blue, or green.

“Jones, how did you read with all of this coloring?”

The old man practically devoured a book I’ve never even read. Dickens and Austin, yes. Steinbeck and Faulkner, yes, but under duress. American lit class. But the Word of God (or so it claims to be)? Never.

I don’t know one verse . . . Wait, I do. John 3:16. The football-game Scripture. Where is John? John, John, John. The tissuelike pages crinkle and slide as I hunt around pages labeled Deuteronomy and Exodus. Where is John?

Finally, I sit on the edge of the coffee table, find the table of contents, and turn, gently, to John.

Chapter 3. Verse 16.

The words are printed in red. Interesting. For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have eternal life.

I read them over again, liking the sound of being “so loved” and “not perish.” Then my eye skips over the next page.

Jones circled and colored over verse 36. He who believes in the Son has eternal life; but he who does not obey the Son shall not see life, but the wrath of God abides on him.

Wrath of God? What happened to not perishing? Slamming the book closed, I jump up. “God, please—”

Mitch’s camp story springs to mind. “He’s pursuing you. Now, you can accept it or be like me, a running fool.”

What if I don’t want either? Middle of the road is good, right? What I need is some company. Get my mind off things like boyfriends want-ing to move in, selling cars, and God’s wrath. Wonder what Dad and Posey are up to?

I grab my keys and purse and head out the door. “Wake up, Matilda, we’re going out.”

The wind in my face feels good. The Toby Keith song on the radio is one of my favorites, and by the time I brake for the stoplight on Carteret, I feel like myself again.

Then I spot Mercy Bea on the corner with a fleshy-faced, rotund man.

What is she doing? I move to the left turn lane instead of going right, over the bridge. Is she all right?

Flesh-face jabs the air around her, running off at the mouth. In return, Mercy Bea wrings her hands, a pantomime of explaining and pleading.

My head doesn’t like what my eyes see. With a quick glance up at the light—still red—I cup my hands around my mouth. “Mercy Bea.”

She whirls around. Her expression is intense at first, but she lightens it with a casual, “Hey, Caroline.”

The light flips to green faster than I thought and the guy behind me is immediately on his horn. I shift into gear and slowly take the corner.