Like Sheep Gone Astray (25 page)
Anthony did not remember anything about his father, but he did remember looking into Aunt Rosa's black-wire-framed eyes and saying at that moment the words he would spend most of his life living by: “I'm going to make enough money so that none of us will ever be sad when we're supposed to be happy.”
Aunt Rosa looked back at him with a sad knowing in her eyes. “You sound just like your father, Charlie Murdock. He learned the hard way that money don't equal happiness.”
Anthony leaned back in his kitchen chair, the memory of that moment as tangible to him as the ceramic bowl filled with apples, bananas, and oranges sitting in front of his face. He thought about a series of sermons Pastor Green had preached a few years back on generational curses, teaching how the atmosphere of a family can allow for the sins of the father or mother to become the sins of the child.
“My father must have been as money hungry as I am. I wonder if he ever got into a mess like me?”
Yes.
Anthony immediately wanted to know everything about his father's finances.
“Minister Porter may have really been onto something.” Anthony cut off the coffeepot as he reached for his coat and keys. He left the overpaid pension-fund statement out on the table to address the next business day. I Timothy 6:9-11 was written on it with bright red ink.
“I feel a Samson victory coming.” Anthony jingled the keys in his hand. But even as he said the words a realization choked his sentence. For Samson to overcome, he had to go down with the enemy.
Man of Steel
For ye were as sheep going astray; but are now returned unto the Shepherd and Bishop of your souls.
(I Peter 2:25 KJV)
C
lattering plates and clanking utensils jolted Mabel Linstead awake. She rolled over in the sofa bed her sister-in-law had prepared for her and searched for the clock in the dim light of predawn.
“Five-thirty? What is she doing?” Mabel sat up, feeling for her slippers hidden under a corner of the paisley-print comforter. As she stood she tugged at the heavy blanket, repositioning it, careful not to awaken her daughter, Denise, who was sleeping on the other side of the bed.
A loud metal clang clashed from the kitchen along with a short swish of water. Mabel followed the sound to find Kellye Porter standing by the suds-filled sink, an apron tied over her bathrobe, soaked in splotches of bubbles and water.
“Kellye, why are you worried about them dishes right now?” Her voice had a maternal edge to it. Although both women were well over sixty, Mabel still saw Kellye as the cute little northern girl who married her baby brother, Bernard, taking him six hundred miles away from his Sharen, South Carolina, home.
“There's going to be more people coming over today than it was yesterday, and I can't have this kitchen looking like this.” Kellye's concentration never left the grease she was scrubbing out of an empty pan that had held baked chicken.
True to tradition, church members, friends, and other sympathizers had been steadily flocking in and out of the Porters' home, bringing with them pots and bowls of chicken and ham, greens and potato salad, cakes and pies, and plenty of beverages. In her time of bereavement, cooking for a crowd of grievers was the last thing a newly named widow should be fussing over, and the community answered the call.
“Honey, people are coming here to see you, not your kitchen. Now why don't you try to rest. I doubt that you got much sleep last night, and we have to finish making the arrangements later on today.” Mabel squeezed Kellye's shoulder as she spoke.
“I can't just sit. There's too much to do. I still need to gather everything to give to the mortician, and I can't decide between Bernard's blue suit or black one. And then there's the obituary photo. I just can't decide.…” Kellye took a deep breath as her eyes drifted to the kitchen table. Dozens of photographs were laid out in neat rows, Mabel noticed for the first time.
“Kellye”—she took her by both arms and with a sorrowful smile looked her straight in the eyes—“please go rest. I can help you with all this. I'll lay out some outfits and pictures while you sleep and you can decide from those later. Okay? Now you go and get some rest.”
Kellye gave the kitchen sink and the photos an uncertain last look before heading quietly to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. In slow, hesitant steps, Mabel approached the pine table where her brother, Bernard, smiled up at her from a million different captured memories. Weddings, family reunions, birthdays, lazy summer afternoons. Bernard as a young man, eyes gazing with the bold dare of youth; Bernard as an old man, distinguished and comfortable with the life he'd forged.
Her fingers ran over the glossy finishes, a single tear resting in the corner of one eye as she picked up photos one by one. Bernard standing next to Kellye, sitting with Poppa, cradling Denise; Bernard on the usher board, the deacon board, his trial sermon. Bernard with family from back home, with his Toringhouse Steel co-workers, with people she knew, with many she didn't. Bernard with—Mabel suddenly froze. Her eyes dried of all tears as she picked up an old photo that had been stuck to the back of another, the edges torn and ragged as if time had tried to will the memory away.
Mabel reached for her glasses to get a better look but was interrupted by a soft knock at the front door.
“They're starting early today,” she mumbled as she went to greet the first visitor of the morning. She opened the front door to find a young man in his late twenties standing there, a focused fire in his eyes despite his disheveled appearance.
“I'm sorry to be over so early, but I really need to speak to Sister Porter.” He looked at her like he was trying to place her face. She knew exactly who he was, instinctively clutching the photograph in her hand closer to her side, away from his eyes and attention.
“I'm sorry, but Kellye just went to sleep and she really needs her rest. I'll tell her you stopped by. What's your name, darling?” Her voice was a sweet sound of southern melody, but her heart was pounding a different tune.
“Anthony. Minister Anthony Murdock. Tell her I came and I'll be back later this morning.”
“Oh? Okay.” She forced a smile as she closed the door. Padded steps sounded from the hallway.
“Who was that? Was someone just at the door?” Kellye's voice was hoarse, her face a ragged maze of tears and tiredness.
“Oh, I was just checking to see if your paper came today. I wanted to see how they list obituaries up here so I can help you better. That's all, now go on back to bed.”
When Kellye disappeared into the hallway, Mabel took another long look at the photo in her hand.
“Don't worry, I'm taking care of everything,” she called after her. And then in a softer voice, whispered, “Starting with this.” She crumpled up the worn picture and put it in her bathrobe pocket.
It had been a long night and Terri felt it in her feet, her arms, her back, and, most of all, her head. She woke up with a start, sitting straight up and then collapsing under the weight of a piercing headache that wrapped itself around her forehead and reached down to the bones in her neck.
She would have lain there a few moments longer, soaking in the frenzied solos of a few distant birds; but just as she was about to reclose her eyes something caught her attention. What was that abstract painting doing in her bedroom? And why was there a collection of sculptures on her desk? Wait a minute, she didn't have a desk in her bedroom and even if she did, it wouldn't be that one. The minimalist design would clash with her Moroccan-themed bedroom furniture. And if this wasn't her furniture, then—
“Where the heck am I?” She sprang up with a shout. At her feet, in an easy chair facing her, with an easy smile on his face, sat Reginald Savant. Snapshots of the night before suddenly flashed through Terri's mind like a rushed slide show, starting with the anger and humiliation of Anthony's disregard for her and ending with a bottle and a half of Moët at a bar counter with Reggie. She did not remember anything beyond that.
“Oh my goodness!” Her whisper had the impact of a scream as she threw both hands over her mouth.
Reggie, still dressed impeccably in his tux from the evening before, squelched her fears before she even fully expressed them.
“No.” He let the word sink in before continuing. “I consider myself a gentleman, and as such, I would never take advantage of a lady caught in a state such as yours last night. The only task fitting for me to do was see you to a safe place.”
“And the safest place available was here in your bedroom, right?” As quick as the sarcasm rose, so did the uneasiness in Terri's stomach. She threw a hand over her mouth as Reggie quickly put a wastebasket in front of her.
His smile was wicked as Terri put the can to use. “Well, if I had known that you would have considered my bedroom to be such a safe haven, I would have most certainly taken you there instead of here to my office.” He stood as he spoke and with a quick pull, black window shades were drawn, letting a megadose of yellow sunshine spill loosely into the room.
Terri squinted in the bright light, but as her eyes took better focus, she realized she was sitting on an oversized plush sofa, and not a bed. There were several bookcases around her, a computer workstation, and the view out the window was a panorama of downtown glass and steel. In her embarrassment, she did not see Reggie's eyes glued to the delicate motions of her arms and hands setting down the trash can and then smoothing out the wrinkled black gown she was still wearing.
“You are absolutely beautiful.” His voice was a whisper as he neared her again. He sat down, pulling his chair as close as possible to her.
“You are quite the charmer, Mr. Savant, giving me a compliment after all I've given is a mess.”
Their eyes met in a tense engagement until Terri surrendered to the jitters that were stinging her conscience. Everything felt right and wrong at the same time.
“It's—”
“Saturday morning,” Reggie cut her off. “A good time to enjoy the early-bird breakfast buffet at the Westcott Room. Let's go eat, and then…and then we can see what other adventures await us this fine weekend day.” His fingers lightly tickled her bare arms, stopping gently at her shoulders. “It's a good day for discovery and exploration, leisure and letting go.”
The words
letting go
lingered in Terri's head as Reggie planted soft, warm kisses on her hand and arm. She pulled back slowly, shutting her eyes, not wanting to think beyond the moment, blocking out the thoughts of Anthony and the circumstances that had led her to this very unbusinesslike meeting in Reggie's forty-third-floor office suite.
“Let's go,” she said decidedly, “to the Westcott Room.” She jumped to her feet, taking his hand in hers.
Anthony turned up the heat in his car. It was surprisingly cold despite the abundance of September sunshine. The sunlight was just a few hours old, leaving few cars to compete for lane space as Anthony turned onto the highway away from Kellye Porter's home. He had not given much thought to how early it was until after he knocked on her door, and was almost relieved when another woman answered it.
Kellye did need her rest, as it was sure to be an exhausting, trying day for her. Despite the minor crimp in his plan, he was not deterred in his search for information about his father. He was already moving on to Plan B. He would revisit Plan A later.
Anthony settled comfortably in the driver's seat, feeling for the first time in a long time a certainty that he was on the right track. Repentance had opened his eyes to his own heart and God's place in it, giving him an unwavering sense of peace. The burden was lighter, although his mission had taken on an extra assignment.
Now it was about more than revealing the source of the bribe money and coming clean before everyone. He felt a freedom, an exoneration almost, that pinched a nerve of purpose somewhere inside of him. It was as if the journey had taken on the task of resolving a lifetime obsession; a task that had been handed to him and would lead him to a destination of God's design. It was, up to this point, his ultimate undertaking: fighting for his life, his family, his community.
Mr. Haberstick had been right at least about one thing: this was bigger than the two of them. But now the fear and confusion that had surrounded Anthony when he'd heard that statement was gone with the realization that the biggest involvement was from his Lord, and He had a purposed outcome in mind.
For I know the thoughts that I think toward you…thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.
The words God spoke in the book of Jeremiah brought assurance to Anthony's heart, an assurance no amount of money could ever buy.
He decided to make a brief stop en route to Plan B. Pastor Green was usually at the church early on Saturday mornings as he prepared sermon notes for Sunday services. Anthony wanted someone to rejoice alongside him in his revival of spirit and purposed direction. He turned off the expressway a few exits before the church with the intent of finding a drive-though serving breakfast. The rumblings of his empty stomach, which he had successfully ignored for nearly twenty-four hours, had ceased their polite request for nourishment. His body now screamed for food, and Anthony was eager to break his forced fast. Pastor Green could probably use a cup of steaming coffee and a hot bacon-and-egg sandwich, Anthony decided as he pulled to a stop at the rear of a short line of other hungry drivers.
Just as he placed his order, his cell phone rang, the shrilling of it almost foreign to his ears as it had succumbed to silence for so long.
“Anthony, what are you doing? Where are you? I thought you were going to call me first thing this morning?”
Anthony had never heard the councilman sound this anxious. Walter Banks had established a reputation as a cool-headed council member, able to calm the nerves and angry sentiments of the ill-at-ease public at community forums, never breaking a sweat during three exceedingly tight election races.
“Good morning, Mr. Banks.” Anthony sounded cheery over the static. “I haven't forgotten you. I was planning to see you this afternoon after I checked a couple of leads. I think—no, I know that I'm on to something. Come to think about it, you may be able to help me with this. It's about my father, Charles Anthony Murdock.” Anthony wondered if Aunt Rosa had ever spoken to the councilman about his father.