Chapter Twenty-Two

I knew JohnScott would come.

I waited for him on the couch, entranced by the blank television screen. Thirteen years before, I had curled up on the same couch watching the Power Rangers while Momma and Daddy argued in the bedroom. When I turned up the volume, Momma had yelled at me to turn it down.

“Don’t holler at her, Lynda. She didn’t do nothing.” Daddy had been in a dark mood that day, and so weary I remember thinking he needed a nap. He had long stretches, days at a time, when sadness seemed to consume him body and soul.

Momma followed him into the living room, then leaned against the doorframe. “You’re right, Hoby. She didn’t do anything.”

Daddy knelt in front of me and took my face in his hands. I smiled at the attention he gave me, but the longer I looked into his eyes, the more my mood mirrored his own. His sorrow warmed my cheeks as he examined my eyes, lips, and nose. His fingertips trailed across my forehead, and I felt his tension—studying, hunting, searching … but for what?

“It’s her eyes, Hoby,” Momma had pleaded with him. “Remember, babe? It’s her eyes.”

He shook his head and sighed, then plodded past the Power Rangers and out the front door.

“Daddy, wait.” I ran after him.

“I’ve gotta go to work now, Ruth Ann.”

“But you don’t have your work shirt.”

He glanced down. “Yeah, I guess it’s in the laundry. You be good, okay?” He grasped my miniature hand with his calloused one and kissed it before climbing into his truck. His whiskers tickled, and I pressed my palm against the leg of my cotton shorts to still the sensation before returning to the couch for the rest of my show.

Daddy never came back.

For two days I asked Momma when he’d be home, but she had only gazed at me with a lost expression. Finally Aunt Velma sat me down and explained.

A rapid knock jolted me out of my memories, and I lifted my eyes to see JohnScott’s curls through the diamond-shaped window in our front door. Inhaling a ragged breath, I steeled myself for the inevitable confrontation. “Come on in.”

He opened the door hesitantly, but he smiled. “Hey there, little cousin.”

He had changed into dry clothes, but his hair was still damp, and I pretended not to notice the peculiar expression on his face as he followed me to the kitchen.

“You want some chocolate milk?”

Normally he would have sprawled in one of the mismatched maple chairs at the table, but instead he stalled at the counter. “I’ve got something to tell you, Ruthie.”

“All right.” I reached into the refrigerator for the milk, hugging it to my hip while I grabbed two glasses off the drain board. The coldness remained on my shirt and stomach even after I set the jug on the counter.

“I need to tell you something, little cousin.”

“You said that.”

He took a step toward me. “I got baptized this afternoon.”

Pausing in my preparations, I intended to acknowledge his statement, but he rushed on.

“Dodd has been talking to me, but I’d been waiting because I thought I wasn’t good enough. Then today it just felt right, you know?”

I scooped Nesquik into the glasses, inhaling the chocolaty powder.

“Dodd and Grady explained I don’t have to be good enough. God wants me the way I am.” His voice drifted to a murmur. “Cool, huh?”

The spoon tinkled hollowly against the sides of the glass, mimicking the void in my spirit. One good whack, and everything would shatter. “I guess so.”

“We did it out in the holding tank.” He shivered. “I thought Dodd would turn blue from the cold. You should’ve seen him.”

A drop of guilt splashed in my heart.

“He and Grady came over to the house for lunch, and we talked for an hour or more. I feel so clean, Ruthie. Like I’m a different person.”

I handed him his chocolate milk.

“Afterward I cried, Ruthie. Can you believe that? JohnScott Pickett cried.” He raised the glass to his lips but lowered it before drinking. “You’re not mad?”

Of course I wasn’t mad.

I took a sip of my drink, and the coldness crept from my throat, behind my heart, and into my stomach. “I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, you’ve been meeting with the Debate Club.”

He slowly turned his face to the side, but his eyes remained fixed on me.

“It’s no big deal, JohnScott.” I settled into a chair at the kitchen table, wishing for the first time in my life that JohnScott would go home. What good would it do to talk about it?

“Ruthie, I want you to feel this good too.” He sloshed milk on the table as he sat down. “Will you let me tell you about Jesus?”

I pulled a paper napkin from the plastic holder, laying it over the spill to soak up the milk. Then I wiped the vinyl tablecloth and wadded the napkin in my fist. If only the messes of life could be cleaned so easily.

“I remember Jesus … from Sunday school when I was small.”

He rotated his glass, exposing a ring of milk, which we both studied to keep from looking at each other. “So you know He died for you?”

I nodded, but indignation lifted my chin stiffly.

“Do you believe it?”

“It makes sense.” His questions goaded my patience like an electric cattle prod—zzt, zzt, zzt.

“Then why—”

“Because of the people.” The words clunked across my tongue, and I imagined the low echo of an angry fist pounding a pulpit.

“The people?”

I slapped at a tear but refused to let a second escape. “JohnScott, Jesus may love you even though you’re not good enough, but I’m not good enough for the church.” I gave a sarcastic chuckle. “And they don’t love me in spite of it.”

My statement surprised me as much as him.

“The people aren’t important, Ruthie.”

“The people are everything.” I rose and dumped both glasses in the sink, slamming the faucet back and forth as I rinsed them.

He waited until I settled, until my mind returned to my present-day kitchen and the weight of thirteen years lifted from my chest, until I could breathe again.

“It’s about you and God,” he said, touching the brown ring on the tablecloth. “But I suppose people can get in the way.”

I straightened the glasses in the sink. “That’s a fact.”