A Change of Heart (10 page)

T
he phone call came the first day of November, on a Monday morning, Sam Gardner’s day off. He’d just settled into his recliner to read the Sunday paper, which had arrived from the city in that morning’s mail. He’d read the front section, then the comics, and then the advice columns, in that order. He surveyed the obituaries, to make sure no one he knew had died, and had just turned to the television section to preview that week’s drivel when the telephone rang.

“Can you get that?” he yelled to Barbara. “I’m not home, so take a message.”

He heard his wife pick up the phone in the next room.

“Sam, it’s for you.”

“Daggone it all, why can’t you take a message?” he grumbled. “It’s my day off.”

“You need to take this one,” Barbara said, handing him the telephone.

“Hello,” he said, rather gruffly, in order to discourage a lengthy conversation.

“It’s Dale,” Dolores Hinshaw began.

Of course, it would be Dale, Sam thought. Who else but Dale Hinshaw would ruin my day off?

“The hospital called. They have a heart for him. We’re supposed to be at the hospital in three hours. I’m too upset to drive and Dale can’t and I called my sister but she’s not home. Harvey Muldock said he’d take us, but he and Eunice went up to Chicago to see their son and all our kids are at work and we can’t get hold of them and I don’t know what we’re gonna do. I called the hospital to ask if they could just keep it in Tupperware until we got there, but I guess they don’t do that.”

Then she let out a wail, which Barbara heard from across the room. Sam covered the telephone mouthpiece with his hand, turned, and smiled at his wife. “Honey, did you have any plans today?”

“Laundry, grocery shopping, housecleaning, taking the boys to the dentist after school, then to the barbershop for haircuts, then cooking supper and making cupcakes for Addison’s class tomorrow. Other than that, my day’s wide open. Tell you what though, if you want to do all that, I’ll be happy to help the Hinshaws.”

Sam grimaced. “Did you try Ellis Hodge?” he asked Dolores.

“He and Miriam are visiting her sister. Don’t you remember? They asked for prayers for her yesterday in church. She’s got thrombosis.”

“I have an idea,” he said, cursing his bad luck even as he spoke. “Why don’t I come by and drive you and Dale to the hospital?”

“Oh, Sam, thank you. When can you be here?”

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

“See you then.”

He hung up the phone, his shoulders slumping, bowed in defeat. “There goes my day off.”

“A day off. Boy, wouldn’t that be nice.”

So much for a sympathetic ear.

He tromped upstairs to brush his teeth, comb his hair, and change his shirt. Days like this, he wished he sold shoes. Eight to five, an hour for lunch, weekends off, no meetings at night, no disgruntled customers phoning his house to complain, plus a 50 percent discount on shoes. A sweet deal, if you could swing it.

His car was low on gas, so he stopped past Logan’s Mobil to top it off. He drove over the rubber hose and could hear the bell sounding inside the garage. Though Logan’s is full service, it is painfully slow. The sign out front says
Same Day Service,
which the uninitiated might think is a reference to engine repairs, but it isn’t. That’s how long it takes Nate Logan to scoot out from underneath a car, wash his hands, and make his way out to the pumps, where he eventually fills the tank, though not before complaining about his bad knees or various other maladies.

Sam had learned long ago not to ask Nate how he was unless he was prepared to spend the day listening.

For years, people have been pleading with Nate to make it a self-serve station, but he’s resisted. Full service is his way of guaranteeing a captive audience. He sets the pump on the first notch and jabbers away for the fifteen minutes it takes to fill the tank. Only after the pump has shut off does he bother to check the oil and wash the windshield, maintaining a steady monologue all the while.

Sam was ten minutes late. By the time he arrived, Dale and Dolores were standing at the end of their driveway, suitcases in hand. Sam lifted their bags into the trunk, then opened the back door for them to get in.

“I better ride up front,” Dale said. “Otherwise, I’ll get carsick and throw up everywhere.”

What a day this is going to be, Sam thought miserably.

They drove through town to Main Street, then headed east toward the interstate. Fifteen minutes later they were sandwiched between two semis, hurtling along at seventy miles an hour. Sam had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel while Dale yammered in his right ear.

“Sure hope those doctors are Christians,” he said.

“What’s their religion got to do with anything?” Sam asked. “There are plenty of wonderful surgeons who aren’t Christian.”

“I read in my
Mighty Men of God
magazine about this pastor in Alabama getting operated on and his doctors was Muslim and they found out he was a Christian while he was bein’ operated on and they tried to kill him right there on the table and would have if one of the nurses hadn’t been Christian and shot ’em dead. Thank the Lord for a God-fearing woman, that’s all I can say.”

“That’s ridiculous, Dale. I never heard of that happening.”

“And do you really think you would with the liberal press we have in this country?” He reached up and removed the large cross he customarily wore around his neck. “No use agitatin’ them when they got a scalpel not six inches from my throat.” He passed it back to Dolores. “Why don’t you keep this in your purse until after my surgery. Don’t want to wave a red flag in their faces.”

They rode on in silence for a half hour. Sam was hesitant to speak, fearing it might give Dale a new topic and he’d be off to the races. Dolores would occasionally comment favorably about a passing barn or farmhouse, and Sam would nod his head agreeably. After a while, the hum of the road lulled the Hinshaws to sleep and Sam relaxed, almost enjoying the trip.

Thirty miles south of the city, Dale revived. He yawned and stretched, then rubbed his eyes. The farmland changed into suburbs, and the fields gave way to beige homes arrayed in domino lines.

“Sure hope I don’t get a woman’s heart,” Dale said. He turned to Sam, “You think they’d do that to me?”

“I’m not sure, Dale. I don’t know much about this kind of thing. But I’m sure if they give you a woman’s heart, it’ll be all right.”

Dale harrumphed. “I was listening to Brother Eddie on his radio program and he was talking about organ transplants and he’s not for them. Do you ever listen to him?”

Brother Eddie had a loose bolt above his neck and for years had plied the nighttime airwaves with his twaddle. Sam had listened to him in college for kicks. “Not for a long while,” he answered Dale.

“Anyway, he was talking about this man who got a woman’s heart and the next thing you know he’d turned into a homosexual and was wearing high heels and everything. Had a wife and three kids, was a deacon in his church, sang in the choir, and belonged to the Kiwanas. And he left all that to run off with some artist fella and now they wear dresses and sing in nightclubs. Brother Eddie had actually known the man.” He shook his head at the depravity of it.

“Hasn’t Brother Eddie also predicted the end of the world about a dozen times so far?”

“I don’t know about that. Maybe once or twice,” Dale conceded. “That don’t mean he’s wrong all the time.”

Sam exited the interstate and turned onto a surface street that carried them to the hospital. He pulled up to the front entrance and deposited Dale and Dolores, then went to park his car. When he returned, he found Dale and Dolores standing near the registration desk. Dale was gawking at a crucifix mounted on the wall. He leaned over and whispered to Sam, “I didn’t know this was a Catholic hospital.”

“Why’s that matter? It’s a good hospital. One of the best in the nation for transplants.”

“Hope they don’t give me a Catholic heart, that’s all. You know they put people under to operate on ’em and sneak in a priest to baptize ’em. They do the same thing if you’re in an accident. You’ll be layin’ in the street with a car on top of you and a priest is praying over you and the next thing you know you’re sayin’ the rosary and eatin’ fish on Fridays. Promise you won’t let ’em baptize me, Sam.”

People were beginning to stare at them, frowning.

“Sure, Dale, I promise.”

Fortunately, a nurse appeared and whisked Dale away to prepare him for the surgery. It was nearing lunchtime, so Sam and Dolores went to the cafeteria to begin their long wait. It was crowded with doctors and nurses, but they found a small table in one corner. Dolores nibbled the edges of her hamburger, clearly distracted. “You do think he’ll make it, don’t you, Sam?”

Sam reached across the table and patted her hand. “He’s going to be fine.”

The intercom over their heads sputtered to life. “Could Dolores Hinshaw please come to the surgery waiting room. Dolores Hinshaw, to the surgery waiting room.”

“Oh my Lord, he’s dead already,” she cried, leaping to her feet.

To his shame, Sam’s first thought was that with Dale dead, he wouldn’t have to spend his whole day at the hospital after all. Then his pastoral instincts kicked in, and he hurried out of the cafeteria and down the hallway after Dolores.

“What’s wrong with my husband?” Dolores asked the woman behind the waiting-room desk.

“The doctor will be out with you in a moment, ma’am. Why don’t you have a seat.”

Sam steered Dolores to a chair, then sat beside her. He glanced around the waiting room, studying the people, most of whom were staring slack-jawed at the television.

Thirty minutes and two magazines later, a doctor emerged and caught Dolores’s eye.

“Mrs. Hinshaw?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Just wanted to let you know we’re starting things up.” He outlined the procedure, trying to put Dolores at ease, and then turned to Sam. “Are you their son?”

Heaven forbid, Sam thought. “Sam Gardner,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m the Hinshaws’ pastor.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, I had the impression Mr. Hinshaw was deeply religious.”

You don’t know the half of it, Sam thought.

“He kept asking me if I was saved. I told him I was Episcopalian.”

“Very interesting,” Sam said.

“Probably the anesthesia,” the doctor guessed. “Sometimes it makes people say funny things.”

“That must have been it,” Sam agreed hastily.

“Well, I just wanted to touch base with the family before we did the surgery.”

“How long will it take?” Dolores asked.

“Depends on what we find when we get in there, but probably no more than six hours. So why don’t you relax, maybe get a bite to eat. We’ll send someone out every hour or so to let you know how things are going.”

He gave Dolores an Episcopalian hug—modest but heartfelt—then excused himself.

Sam steered Dolores to a quiet corner, away from the television, and sat beside her. An hour passed. They’d worked the crossword puzzle and the word search and had settled in for a long wait, when a flurry of activity by the registration desk caught their attention.

“There they are,” Asa Peacock said, pointing at Sam and Dolores.

It appeared half the town had come: Asa’s wife, Jessie; Dale’s barber, Kyle Weathers; Bea and Opal Majors; Oscar and Livinia Purdy from the Dairy Queen; Mabel Morrison and the lovely Deena Morrison; Vinny and Penny from the Coffee Cup; Bob Miles from the
Herald;
Frank the secretary; Morey Lefter; Hester Gladden; Stanley Farlow; Fern Hampton; and Judy Iverson and her Chinese twins. At the back of the bunch, looking awkwardly about, stood Ralph and Sandy Hodge.

Dolores, clearly moved, began to weep. “I can’t believe you’re all here.”

“First heart transplant in Harmony,” Bob Miles said, settling into a chair beside Sam. “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Say, you think they’d let me in to take a few pictures?”

“Barbara wanted to come, but she couldn’t find a babysitter,” Frank told Sam. “She’s the one who called everybody. We got the chain of prayer going.” He turned to face Dolores. “How you holding up?”

“The Baptists loaned us their bus. Morey drove us,” Asa said. “They’re praying for you too.”

“All the churches are,” Frank said. “I called ’em all. Called the Quaker superintendent too. They’re e-mailing all the meetings.”

Sam sat in his chair, utterly dazed, verging on tears. What wonderful, beautiful people, he thought. They make me so crazy, I could scream sometimes, and then they go and do something like this. Dear Lord, thank You for each and every one of them. Make me more like them.

“Anybody care for a Dilly Bar?” Oscar Purdy asked. “Brought a whole cooler of them.”

And so the afternoon passed. Twenty-four Harmonians, gathered in a circle, nibbling on Dilly Bars, fussing over Dolores, entertained by the Chinese twins, who turned somersaults to spirited applause, then occasionally falling silent to pray for a man whose recovery they would likely one day regret, but whom their Christian faith called them to love nonetheless.

T
he Monday before Thanksgiving found Sam Gardner at home, resting in his easy chair, surveying that week’s edition of the
Herald
.

“Did you know that pound for pound, hamburger costs more than a new car?” he asked Barbara.

“I had no idea. Who told you that?”

“It says so right here in the
Herald.
And brown sugar won’t harden if you store it in the freezer.”

“You’re a fount of information,” Barbara said.

Sam turned the page to the “Twenty-five Years Ago This Week” column. “Looks like I made the newspaper.”

“What did you do now?”

Sam read aloud, “Sam Gardner, the son of Charles and Gloria Gardner, was the recipient of the Ora Crandell Memorial Scholarship. He will receive a fifty-dollar scholarship to the college of his choice and a shoe-care kit, compliments of Morrison’s Menswear.”

“Do you still have it?” Barbara asked.

“The shoe-care kit?”

“No, the fifty dollars.”

“Spent it a long time ago,” Sam reported.

“Rats. I wanted to eat out tonight.”

“Looks like you’re out of luck.” He turned the page and scanned the church news. “Unless you want to eat with the Methodists in Cartersburg. They’re holding an early Thanksgiving dinner tonight for the poor. Want to go?”

“We probably don’t qualify,” Barbara pointed out.

“We could wear old clothes. They’d never guess.”

“You are a sick man, Sam Gardner.”

“Nope, just hungry. What’s for lunch?”

“Baloney sandwiches and Cheetos?”

“Sounds good to me. You fix it, and I’ll do the dishes.”

“You’re on,” Barbara agreed.

Sam lived for Mondays. The kids were in school, their phone was off the hook, and Frank the secretary was under strict instructions not to disturb him unless someone died. The afternoon stretched before him, an unpainted canvas of relaxation.

“Want to go for a walk after lunch?” Barbara asked.

“Sure.”

They left the house after lunch, heading south past the school and the Co-op and out into the country. The leaves had fallen and it was a bright, crisp day. The crops had been harvested, and cornstalks lay wounded in a field, cut off at the knees.

A pickup truck lurched into view and rolled to a stop beside them. Ellis Hodge rolled down his window. “Hey, Sam. Hey, Barbara. Need a ride?”

“No, thank you. We’re just out for a little fresh air,” Sam explained. “How’s Ellis doing?”

“If I was any better, I’d be twins. Got the crops in and heading into town to give the bank all my money. Say, I saw you mentioned in the newspaper, Sam. I’d forgotten all about you winning the Ora Crandell award.”

“My claim to fame.”

“How’s the family?” Barbara asked.

“We’re all doing fine.”

“How about Ralph and Sandy? How are they?”

Sam gave Barbara a discreet kick in the ankle. She was wandering into dangerous territory. Probably on purpose, knowing her. Ellis’s obstinacy regarding his brother annoyed her to no end.

“Still alive, I reckon,” Ellis said rather grumpily.

“It must be nice to have a brother,” Barbara continued, seemingly oblivious to Ellis’s discomfort. “I always wanted a brother, but never had one.”

“You can have mine,” Ellis offered.

“Ellis Hodge, you ought to be ashamed of—”

“Ellis, you have a nice day,” Sam interrupted, nudging Barbara along. “We need to finish our walk. Give Miriam and Amanda our best.”

Ellis assured them he would, then accelerated away toward town.

“Would you stop picking on that poor man,” Sam said. “Every time you see him, you ask about his brother. Has it ever occurred to you that he might not want to talk about it?”

“I just thought that, since you won’t encourage him to forgive his brother, I would.”

“It’s not that simple,” Sam said. “You can’t compel someone to forgive someone else. And try seeing it from Ellis’s perspective. If Ralph had neglected our sons, would you be eager to forgive him?”

Barbara didn’t answer.

“He just needs time,” Sam said. “Ellis is a good guy. He’ll come around.”

They walked another mile, to the edge of Stanley Farlow’s old farm, before turning around and heading back home. Barbara was a little peeved, Sam could tell. After a while, the water tower came into view.

“Have I ever told you how my grandparents met?” Sam asked.

“About a million times.”

Sam chuckled. By now they were at the edge of town, walking past the cemetery on the hill above the school. “I wonder what’s harder,” Sam mused. “Whether it’s harder to change or to make people believe you’ve changed.”

“Probably it’s harder to get people to believe you’ve changed.”

“That would certainly explain Ellis’s attitude,” Sam said.

“You know, a guy like Ralph doesn’t stand a chance. He’s been an alcoholic for so many years no one can believe he’s different. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started drinking again.”

Sam thought for a moment. “It must be tough being Ralph Hodge. Ever since they’ve come back, I’ve been wondering what I would say to him if he came to me for advice. My life has been so easy, I’m not sure what I could say that wouldn’t sound like a mindless platitude.”

They passed the school just as the bell rang and the kids flooded out the front doors. They spied their sons amid the surging mob and called out their names. Addison, still too young to be embarrassed by his parents, came running toward them. Levi, their older one, was clearly mortified at his mother and father’s presence. In front of his friends, no less.

“We’re over here, honey,” Barbara called out, waving.

His friends snickered. Levi frowned, turned, and began walking in the other direction.

“I don’t think he likes being called honey,” Sam observed.

Barbara sighed.

“Look on the bright side,” Sam said. “They’ll be going off to college before we know it, and we can sleep in and not have to drink from jelly glasses.”

“Or open the refrigerator and find that someone put an empty milk carton back in,” Barbara added.

“Or find wet bath towels underneath their beds.”

“Don’t forget sticky doorknobs and potato chips between the couch cushions.”

“So will we travel the world and learn how to cook exotic dishes and read all the books we were supposed to have read in college?” Barbara asked.

“Probably not,” Sam said. “But I’ll take you to the Masonic Lodge fish fry if you want and we can read the
Herald.
”

“I guess that’ll have to do,” Barbara said, taking his arm.

Addison squirmed his way in between them. His face was a study of dried milk and faint red tomato sauce.

“Let me guess, you had spaghetti for lunch,” Sam said.

“Yep, and chocolate milk.”

“Sounds delicious,” Sam said. “Nothing like spaghetti and chocolate milk to perk a man up.”

They’d not been home long when Asa Peacock pulled in their driveway with a load of firewood, which the boys stacked in a lopsided row behind the garage, while Barbara made supper and Sam went to visit Dale, who had been cut loose from the hospital the week before and sent home to recuperate.

Persuaded God had spared his life for some noble purpose, Dale had been agitating Sam to reconsider canceling the revival so they could bring in an evangelist he’d seen on television—a man who’d been a missionary in Africa, where the cannibals ate his right leg before he could escape. Undeterred, he’d carved himself a new, albeit shorter, leg and now traveled the country enlightening the multitudes. Brother Lester, the One-Legged Evangelist. Like most folks of his theological persuasion, he leaned toward the right.

Sam had hoped the heart transplant would improve Dale’s personality, though that hasn’t happened. His new heart appears to be every bit as hard and unyielding as his previous one. When Sam had expressed reservations about Brother Lester visiting their church, Dale had blasted away at him. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Stanley Farlow told me that the whole time I was gone you didn’t preach the Word once. Said you were nothing but a lukewarm ear tickler, and I’d have to say he’s right.”

Sam had been reading a book on the power of forgiveness. Written by a Catholic monk, it described in poetic language the benefits of pardon and mercy. Though Sam suspected the monk had never met anyone like Dale, he was still theoretically committed to the notion of turning the other cheek, so he went to visit Dale on his day off, in hopes of spreading some Christian cheer.

He didn’t stay long. They discussed their Thanksgiving plans. Dale hinted around that a true minister of the gospel would invite lonely parishioners to Thanksgiving dinner at his house. “Yeah, we’re just gonna be here by ourselves on Thanksgiving. The kids aren’t coming in until Saturday. It’ll just be me and the missus here by ourselves. Just the two of us. All alone. Here by ourselves.”

“Saturday will be here before you know it,” Sam said, determined not to host Dale Hinshaw yet another Thanksgiving.

“It might be my last Thanksgiving,” Dale said mournfully. “That is, if I live that long. ’Course that’s not my decision. But if the good Lord calls me home, I’ll not complain. His will, not mine, be done.”

Sam sat quietly, trying to imagine why God might want Dale in closer proximity.

“Well, you be sure to enjoy your family this Saturday,” Sam said, rising to leave. “Tell your kids I said hello.”

“Would you say a little prayer for us before you go? Maybe ask the Lord’s blessing on us in our loneliness?”

Sam almost caved in, but managed to steel himself, pray a brief prayer, and escape before Dale Hinshaw ended up seated across from him at the Thanksgiving table, hogging the drumsticks.

He made it halfway home, before he was overcome with guilt and went back to invite the Hinshaws to Thanksgiving. “We’ll be eating around noon.”

He didn’t mention it to Barbara until his parents arrived a little before eleven on Thanksgiving morning. “By the way, honey, I think Dale and Dolores might stop by for a little bite to eat. I seem to remember them saying they might. We might want to set a couple more places.”

Sam’s timing was exquisite. Just as she began to object, their front door opened and there stood his brother, Roger, and his latest girlfriend, Sabrina. Coming up the sidewalk behind them were the Hinshaws, clutching on to one another.

“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise,” Sam said. “Look, honey, Dale and Dolores are here. Come in, come in.”

As it turned out, Dale wasn’t able to squeeze a word in edgewise. Sabrina spent the entire dinner bemoaning global warming and lamenting the invention of the internal combustion engine.

Roger looked on, beaming at his girlfriend. “She’s from San Francisco originally. She lived in a redwood tree for three weeks so it wouldn’t be cut down. It was in all the newspapers.”

Barbara and Sam smiled, contemplating the appropriate response to Roger’s revelation.

“I’m looking forward to the dessert you brought,” Barbara said. “It looks delicious. What exactly is it?”

“It’s homemade yogurt,” Roger said. “Sabrina made it from goat milk.”

Roger doesn’t date women; he dates causes, none of which last. By the next Thanksgiving, there’d be another girlfriend, probably someone from New York City who wrote poetry and belonged to a vegetable cooperative. But then Sam’s mother asked Sabrina how she felt about children, which led to a lecture on overpopulation and the general irresponsibility of bringing someone into a world on the edge of collapse.

“That’s why we got to go out and get people right with the Lord before the Rapture,” Dale interjected, launching into a commercial for Brother Lester, who, despite losing a leg to cannibals, was still faithfully preaching the Word.

“It serves him for right for imposing his values on other cultures,” said Sabrina, who then groaned about Western imperialism and religious colonialism.

Roger watched, glowing, as Sabrina prattled on, and when he kissed his mother good-bye, he whispered in her ear that he was thinking of proposing.

It was all his mother talked about while she and Sam and Barbara washed dishes. “Why can’t they just live together?” she moaned.

It is a shock to hear a mother urge her offspring to shack up, but then an afternoon with Sabrina had a way of shattering time-honored values.

“Your poor mother,” Barbara said that night, while she and Sam were lying in bed. “I bet she worries about Roger.”

“At least she has me,” Sam pointed out. “The winner of the Ora Crandell Memorial Scholarship. That ought to be enough glory for any mother.”

“And you wear your accomplishments so lightly. Winning fifty dollars and a shoe-shine kit would make the average man insufferable, but you’re the same humble man you’ve always been.”

“I am, aren’t I,” Sam agreed.

They lay quietly in the dark as an occasional passing car cast shadows against their bedroom wall. Barbara was thinking of all the things she had to do the next day, and Sam was reaching back in his memory twenty-five years, when the world was his oyster and pearls seemed plenty.