I’m back! Bearing gifts!” Kat set the box from the Dumpster on the kitchen table in the apartment. “Did you save any supper for me?”
Nick appeared in the kitchen doorway in his stocking feet. “Yep. There’s a bowl of pasta salad in the fridge and some cornbread in that pan over there. What’s that stuff you got?”
She grinned and tossed him a head of cauliflower. “Oh, just some pickin’s from the Dumpsters behind that grocery store on Sheridan Road.” Should she tell him about meeting the Douglasses’ daughter, Dumpster-diving just like she’d been? After all, she’d only promised not to tell her mother. But she hesitated. The more people who knew, the more likely Mrs. Douglass might hear about it. And she’d promised . . .
Nick eyed her stash of Dumpster food. “Three heads of cauliflower? Looks like they need to be eaten ASAP. Not sure I want to eat it that many days in a row.”
Kat shrugged. “I’ll give some of it away then.” After all, this was peanuts. She’d been tempted to do a little more diving after giving some of her stash to the other girl—but that bit about taking food from people who really needed it had made her feel awkward. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t. Sure, people who really needed food should get first dibs. But what if it just went to waste?
She pulled the pasta salad out of the refrigerator. “Looks yummy. Thanks.” She filled a plate with cold salad as Nick disappeared, warmed up a couple squares of cornbread in the microwave, and studied the rescued Dumpster food on the table as she ate.
Maybe the Douglasses could use some. As soon as she’d polished off the pasta salad and cornbread, she snagged a plastic grocery bag from under the sink and put in a head of cauliflower, a couple tomatoes, and a fat green pepper, choosing the vegetables with the least amount of bruises and brown tips. Running up the carpeted stairs in the front hallway to the third floor, she knocked on the Douglasses’ door. And waited.
No answer. She knocked again. Still no answer.
They must not be home. Oh well. She hung the plastic bag on the doorknob and scurried back down the stairs.
But running into the Douglasses’ daughter digging food out of a Dumpster bothered Kat the rest of the week. Why was she Dumpster-diving? Was she one of the people who “needed” that food? But why? She didn’t look like a homeless person. And Mrs. Douglass hadn’t said anything to indicate her daughter was in dire straits.
But . . . maybe she didn’t know.
After all, the girl had made her promise not to tell her mother. And seemed real panicked that she might find out.
That was it. Mrs. Douglass didn’t know.
But why didn’t she know? Good grief, her daughter and grandson lived right here in the same city. It made no sense!
By the time Friday night rolled around, Kat still had no answers. Her friends were all kinds of giddy. Two weeks of mini-term down, only one to go! As they rode home on the El, they talked about going out to a movie or something to celebrate. But they barely made it back to the apartment before a thunderstorm rolled in, and by the time they finished supper—Livie’s tuna-and-rice casserole and frozen peas—the streets were awash in a heavy spring rain. So much for going out to celebrate.
But Kat wasn’t thinking about mini-term or celebrating. As she loaded the dirty supper dishes into the dishwasher, another question had risen to the top of the pile: What about the little boy in the photo? Where was he? Surely—“Earth to Kat . . . come in, Kat.” Brygitta was tapping her on the shoulder. “Mind telling me why you just put the leftover tuna casserole in the dishwasher?” She retrieved the plastic storage container from the dishwasher and waved it in Kat’s face.
“Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.” Kat took the container and stuck it in the refrigerator.
Brygitta leaned against the counter and folded her arms. “Obviously. Want to know Dr. Walczak’s diagnosis? You’ve been studying too hard. Mini-term has scrambled your brain. No studying tonight. Since we can’t go out, let’s party in. The Candys have a whole library of DVDs. I propose we pick a romantic movie, pop some popcorn, make root beer floats—I found some vanilla ice cream in the freezer that needs to be used up—and veg out. Theoretically speaking. Veggies not allowed.”
Kat smiled thinly. “Sounds good. Except . . . did anybody ask if there’s going to be a wake or something for Pastor Clark tonight? I’ve only been to a couple funerals, but seems like there’s always a wake or something the day before.”
Brygitta tucked some short strands of her pixie cut behind an ear. “Don’t think so. Nick was talking to Mr. Douglass out in the hall awhile ago, and he said there’s a ‘viewing’ at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, and the memorial service at eleven, followed by a ‘repast.’ I think that means lunch.”
“What about the burial?”
Brygitta shrugged. “Don’t know. C’mon. Let’s choose a movie and drag Livie away from whatever term paper she’s writing. If we turn it up loud enough, maybe we’ll drown out Nick warbling with his guitar. Doesn’t he know he can’t sing?”
The rain had cleared and the sky was mottled with occasional clouds the next morning. It was already warm by the time the four students left the three-flat and headed to the Howard Street shopping center for Pastor Clark’s funeral.
The large meeting room was already packed with people by the time they slipped inside the glass doors of SouledOut Community Church. Debra and Sherman Meeks greeted them warmly, handing them each a program. “The line for viewing is over there.” Debra Meeks pointed to the aisle against the far wall. “If you want to pay your respects to the family, Pastor Clark’s brother is seated in the front row.”
Kat craned her neck. A balding man in a well-used suit sat stiffly in one of the padded folding chairs. Had to be the brother. He was as sallow and bony as Pastor Clark had been.
The man who usually played keyboard on Sunday morning was playing organ-type background music as people filled in the chairs. Kat noticed that all the men were in dark suits and ties, the women in dresses or pantsuits. She was glad Olivia had encouraged them to “dress up” a little—at least no jeans. They’d had to walk, though, so they did wear flat shoes.
The students joined the line inching its way toward the casket set on a cloth-covered wheeled contraption. Parents lifted children to peer into the casket. The woman who’d surprised the Douglasses with an anniversary cake—her name was a state, Kat remembered . . . oh yes, Florida—stood to the side with a box of tissues for those who needed one.
As they drew closer, Kat poked Nick. “Look,” she whispered. “It’s a wooden casket. Looks handmade. So simple—yet it’s really beautiful.”
“Amazing,” Nick murmured.
Now that was really living—or dying—“green,” Kat thought. She was impressed. As far as she could tell, ecology hadn’t seemed particularly high on SouledOut’s priority list. She wondered who had the idea for a homemade casket. A-plus for them.
The four of them stood at the open casket together. Kat felt a strange flutter as she looked at the pastor’s body. It was Pastor Clark all right—thin face, pale sagging skin, wisps of gray hair carefully combed over to one side, scrawny neck and large Adam’s apple tucked inside a stiff white shirt and black suit coat, wrinkled hands resting on his chest. And yet . . . it wasn’t. Eyelids covered his once-twinkling eyes. The joyful smile was absent. His expression was dead. There was no life.
This was the first funeral Kat had been to since she’d become a Christian. What had she thought at other funerals? That was it. The person was gone. Body in the ground. The end.
But now? If it was true, that Jesus had died so everyone who believed could be forgiven of their sins and live with God in heaven forever and ever . . . then this wasn’t the end. But a beginning.
The realization was so powerful that Kat stood unmoving in front of the casket, staring at the body of Pastor Clark. He was alive—but not here. He was with Jesus. When she died someday, she would go to be with Jesus too!
But . . . what about her parents? They occasionally showed up at church, mostly because it was the thing to do on certain holidays, but they never talked about Jesus. Never read the Bible. Both parents thought her decision to “follow Jesus” was just a phase—or they hoped it was. Would they go to heaven, too, when they died? What if—
A sudden sob welled up inside her gut. Tears squeezed out of her eyes. Her shoulders shook. A loud moan escaped her mouth. She couldn’t help it. Kat stood in front of Pastor Clark’s casket and wept.
Florida was beside her in a moment, stuffing tissues into her hand. “It’s all right, baby, it’s all right. Young man, find a chair for your friend. Go on, go on.” She laid a hand on Kat’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be all right, honey. Them tears gonna wash a whole lot of stuff that needs to come out.”
Kat felt Nick’s arm around her shoulders, gently pulling her away from the casket. She let him lead her to some empty chairs toward the back, feeling slightly chagrined. But she couldn’t stop crying. A moment later Brygitta and Olivia slid into the chairs beside her. Brygitta took her hand. “Kat, are you all right? I didn’t realize you felt that way about Pastor Clark. I hardly knew him myself.”
Kat shook her head, pressing the tissue to her eyes.
Nick leaned close. “Don’t go blaming yourself, Kitty Kat.”
“That’s right.” Olivia reached over and patted Kat’s leg. “Remember, it’s not your fault.”
Again Kat shook her head. They didn’t understand. Her tears weren’t for Pastor Clark. Or for herself. For the first time in a long, long time, she wished she could go home to Phoenix and talk to her parents. She was afraid . . . afraid for them to die.
The memorial service was beautiful in its simplicity. A single large flower arrangement stood beside the now-closed wooden casket. Before the service began, Pastor Cobbs explained that Pastor Clark had written a “last will and testament” expressing his wish that money not be spent on a fancy casket or lots of flowers. “Our good brothers Denny Baxter, Josh Baxter, and Harry Bentley made this beautiful casket . . .”
Spontaneous clapping interrupted him and the keyboard played a few trills.
Then the pastor went on. “In lieu of flowers, Pastor Clark requested that a scholarship fund be set up to help SouledOut youth go to college. Although Pastor Clark was not a rich man—after all, we don’t pay pastors all that much here at SouledOut”—Pastor Cobbs grinned slyly and an appreciative chuckle swept the room—“this good man set aside a significant portion of his own estate to begin this scholarship fund, which we are calling the Hubert Clark Scholarship. Please see Elder Peter Douglass if you’d like to contribute a gift in memory of Pastor Clark.”
More clapping and a lot of amens. The pastor then beckoned. “Sister Avis?”
Kat kept her eyes on Mrs. Douglass as she took the mike, reading scriptures from underlined passages in Pastor Clark’s own Bible between a set of old-fashioned hymns. Wearing a deep blue dress with a soft blue-and-black-patterned scarf draped around the neck and her usual twists caught up in a crown on her head, the woman seemed so smart and professional. How could she be so oblivious to what was happening with her daughter?
Kat shook off the disquieting thought and focused on her hymnbook. Most of the hymns—“Pastor Clark’s favorites,” Mrs. Douglass explained—were vaguely familiar to Kat, but certain phrases stood out with new meaning:
“Abide with me . . . in life, in death, abide with me.”
“Alleluia! Sing to Jesus! . . . Not as orphans are we left in sorrow now . . .”
“Be still, my soul, the hour is hastening on, When we shall be forever with the Lord . . .”
“The Lord is my Shepherd, I’ll not want . . . And in God’s house forevermore My dwelling place shall be.”
Estelle Bentley, Harry the ex-cop’s wife—a plus-size, stately black woman who often wore colorful caftans and matching head wraps that looked African in style—read what she called “resolutions” in her deep resonant voice. Kat had never heard anything like them. “Whereas Pastor Hubert Clark was a deeply respected member of this community, we at Peaceful Baptist send our condolences to the members of SouledOut Community Church . . .” There were several “Whereas-es” in each resolution from various churches, businesses in the area, and individuals.
“Interesting,” Bree murmured under her breath. Kat guessed her friends hadn’t heard resolutions like these before either.
After the resolutions, Mrs. Douglass invited people to share memories of Pastor Clark. The first one up was Justin, the young college man and juvenile offender who’d shared at the campfire on Memorial Day. A few of the teens followed, and Kat again heard some of the stories they’d told that night. Several adults shared as well—faithful visits in the hospital, bringing communion to the home when someone was sick, his meaty Bible studies on Wednesday nights. Funny stories too, like the time he offered to drive the youth group to a gospel concert on the south side and ended up in Indiana. It felt good to laugh after the tears that had flowed earlier.
Even Pastor Clark’s brother stood up, an awkward man in his late seventies, taking the mike to thank everyone “for being Hubert’s family” these past years. “I can tell these were happy years for my brother. I only wish . . . wish we had stayed in touch.” His eyes got moist and he sat down, but several people reached out to him, murmuring condolences.
A lump caught in Kat’s throat as Pastor Cobbs took the mike. Could that happen to her family? Lose touch? Her parents hadn’t called her since graduation—of course, they were on that cruise—and frankly, she hadn’t tried to call them either. But she couldn’t let that happen. Even if it was hard, she’d try harder to stay in touch with her parents.
The program said Eulogy—Pastor Cobbs. But the short, sturdy man started to sing. “I have decided . . . to follow Je-sus . . .” The praise team picked it up, and most of the congregation joined in. As the last line died away—“No turning back, no turning back”—the pastor said, “Pastor Clark isn’t with us today. He’s with Jesus—”
“Glory! Oh, praise Jesus!” the Florida woman called out.
“—but if he were here, I know he’d want to ask each and every one of you: Do you love my Jesus? Will you be coming too?”
Pastor Cobbs let those words sit in the silence of the room, even as the guy on keyboard continued to play softly the chorus they’d just sung. And then the pastor said, “None of us knew that last Sunday would be Pastor Clark’s last day on earth. He didn’t know it either. But he was ready. Are you ready? If today was your last day to live, are you ready to die?”