No Dark Valley (71 page)

And the worst thing, the part that let him know he shouldn't hang on to such a video, was the way it burst open the floodgates of his past. No sooner had the words left his mouth than he replied to himself, “Well, aren't we pious?” And as the faces of many girls suddenly rose up before him like clouds of little bubbles someone was blowing through a plastic wand, he added, “What about all these, Mr. Sanctimonious? How long did
you
wait after you met them?”

He was glad his pickup had four-wheel drive, but even so he wasn't going to push it. In his younger days, he had hotdogged all over the place, whether the roads were slippery or dry, but that was only another of the many ways he had changed.

What would the ratio be between the number of dollars of damage he had done to cars due to his careless driving, he wondered, and the list price of the Ford pickup he now drove? That might be interesting to know—or discouraging. He wondered how parents of boys could ever let them get behind the wheel of a car. He couldn't imagine the responsibility of rearing a son. He was too aware of male weaknesses—he would make the poor boy's life miserable. Of course, it didn't look as if he would ever have to face such a responsibility. Somebody like Strom Thurmond might have married at sixty-six and sired four children after that, but it made Bruce tired to think of having teenagers when you were in your eighties. He could barely keep up with the ones at school. Some days he couldn't wait to send them all home—and he was only forty.

The rain was getting considerably lighter now. Even a fine mist was treacherous, though, when the temperature was below freezing. He passed a car that had slid off the road. No one was in it or he might have stopped. That could have been nice, to have someone in the car with him—some distraught person who needed his help.

All of a sudden it hit him that an evening watching movies alone left a lot to be desired. And what if the storm migrated this way and knocked out all the power in his motel room, say right in the middle of Gene Kelly's great dance scene in the pouring rain? Then he would be in a cold, dark,
strange
place all alone. So what if the news said the storm wasn't likely to reach Greenville?
Likely
was a mighty precarious word.

Maybe he should drive farther south—on toward Anderson or Commerce, Georgia. That should be even safer. He had heard all the teachers at school talk about the good shopping in Commerce, all the women teachers that is. None of the men cared much about outlet stores. Or maybe he should forget Commerce and drive all the way to Atlanta. He could no doubt find a really spectacular gift for Maddy in Atlanta, maybe even that ambulance he was still hoping for.

But wherever he went tonight, he needed to be back home by Sunday to help with the children's Christmas program at church that night. Of course, if the power wasn't back on by then, they might not be having a Christmas program—and then what would they do? All the props for the manger scene and the shepherds' bathrobes and staffs had been collected and were stored in the choir room. If they put it off a week, it would be after Christmas.

Goodness, he was letting himself get entirely too keyed up over this little ice storm. He was acting like an old person. Where was his flexibility, the attitude of let-come-what-may that he was feeling so proud of only moments earlier? Calm down, get a grip, everything's going to be okay, he told himself. If Greenville gets hit, then you can get in your trusty truck and move on down the road. If the Christmas program gets canceled, life will still go on. School's out. You're a free man for two whole weeks.

He was nearing the little strip mall now where the Trio Gallery was, only a couple of miles away from the 85 exit. Though the sky was still the color of slate, it appeared that the rain had now stopped altogether. Maybe the weatherman would actually be right about something for a change.

It was almost three-thirty, but Bruce was already feeling really hungry. Lunch had been totally confusing with all the announcements over the intercom, kids leaving, the cafeteria helpers trying to hurry things up. Bruce had eaten a single piece of pizza while helping patrol the front hall and office area. Other teachers had been scurrying to take down their Christmas decorations and pack up to go home early.

A good hot meal would definitely be first on the agenda. He would be at the Cracker Barrel before four o'clock, so he could get right in. Slowing down slightly as he passed the strip mall, he glanced toward the Trio Gallery. There were lights on in most of the shops but only a couple of cars in the parking lot. He wondered if any of the shop owners would close down early today. Surely Celia would have been listening to the weather on a day like today. Surely she knew about the broken electrical lines in Berea and Derby and wouldn't want to wait until almost dark to drive home and see if her apartment had power. He thought again of how cold her apartment would get without electricity and hoped the Stewarts would look out for her. Maybe she would stay the night at the gallery. Maybe there was a cot in a back room somewhere.

Suddenly he had an idea, a very silly one, but one that he could almost imagine himself acting on. He was already past the gallery by now, fortunately, but the idea kept growing in his mind. It was totally ridiculous. He would never do it. He wouldn't dare. He wasn't in the mood for another snub. But it could be different this time. He wouldn't get all flustered and talk too much.

He saw himself open the front door of the gallery and saunter in. He saw Celia lift her head from . . . whatever it was she did all day. Besides bookkeeping, that is. Milton had said not long ago that Celia had “taken over the books” at the gallery, which meant she was working longer hours during the week than she used to and wasn't working on Saturdays anymore.

Driving on, Bruce pictured himself in the gallery, standing by the door, looking around with a detached air, trying to decide if this was really worth his time. Very cool, very nonchalant. No nervous stumbling around for words this time. He did not even so much as glance in Celia's direction, though he could tell that she was looking at him, her fingers poised over the computer keyboard.

Humming a tune, something she would recognize—maybe “Precious Lord, Take My Hand”—he would proceed around the gallery perusing the works of art, maybe making notes on a pad of paper, as if he was seriously considering a purchase or was going to write up a critique on the show for the newspaper. She would resume her work at the computer, but hesitantly, the irregular clicks of the keyboard giving it away that she was eaten up with curiosity about why he was here at the gallery.

He skipped over ten or fifteen minutes, still walking around humming, before returning to the door, stopping to make one last notation on his pad. She had risen from the desk by now and was kneeling by a large painting on the floor, measuring its length and width. He could tell that she was only pretending to be busy, though, that if he asked her the dimensions of the painting, she would have to measure it all over again. He opened the door, which triggered an electronic bell sound, and watched her head spin around to see if he was leaving. He saw the stricken look on her face as she saw him step across the threshold.

At which point he pretended to take notice of her for the first time and step back in, at which point her face flooded with barely disguised joy, at which point he spoke to her: “It's pretty nasty outside today.” She stood and came to the window, a worried look in her sad eyes.

“How will I ever get home?” she said, wringing her hands. “The tires on my car have almost no tread left on them.”

“There's no power at your house,” Bruce said gently. “I just came from there. The whole neighborhood is out.”

Her hand went to her throat. “It will be so cold,” she said. “And I hate the dark.”

A car honked, and Bruce edged back into his lane. Good thing he had snapped back to reality—he barely had time to veer onto the 85 exit. Way to go, Walter Mitty, he told himself. He remembered the movie, with Danny Kaye playing the role of the addlebrained daydreamer. But at least he wasn't going to extremes like Walter Mitty—no World War II ace pilot heroics, no life-or-death surgical procedures or courtroom dramas. But then maybe he was going to extremes. In fact, he most definitely was. What was more extreme than dreaming about somebody like Celia melting at the sight of him, hinting for him to take care of her?

You ought to be ashamed, he told himself. And before the other side of him, the defensive whiny side, could say, “What for?” he provided the answer: “The only reason you keep thinking about her is that she doesn't give you the time of day.” And he recognized it as the absolute truth. If she fell for him the way other women always had, he could mark her off and forget about her.

How many times had he watched women submit to him after he had plotted just the right word spoken at just the right time with just the right amount of innuendo and a suggestive smile, a long knowing look, a flippant nod—whatever it took for that particular woman, which was always something he seemed to know instinctively.

And though he had never ever forced himself on a girl, would have considered that the height of bad manners not to mention an empty victory, he knew in his heart that he had done exactly that by his smooth talking and subtle gestures. What did it matter, really, whether you used charm or brawn to get your way? Soft manipulation or manhandling—both resulted in the same thing. He had known exactly what he was doing. How could he ever forgive himself? How could God stand the sight of somebody like him in heaven with all the white-robed saints who deserved to be there?

And then, right there on I-85 heading toward Greenville, he again heard a chiding voice:
But grace, don't ever forget grace!
Part of him wanted to say,
But my sins are so many
, while the other part scolded,
You have got to be the slowest learner in all of Christendom
. God's grace, he told himself firmly, is big enough to cover the blackest sins. It's strong enough to lift the heaviest load of guilt, to blow the dirt of shame from the darkest corner and scatter it to the four winds. It's good and bright enough to shine into a man's heart and clean out all the filth of the past forever and ever.

Heading toward a hot nourishing meal on an icy day, Bruce allowed the truth of God's grace to envelop him like a warm bath
. That's how he would write it someday, to help someone else who was having trouble remembering that when God forgives, he does it once and for all. He doesn't keep dragging out reminders the way people do.

Bruce was past thinking that grown men didn't cry. If they didn't, they probably should once in a while. He wasn't afraid to admit that he did sometimes cry, for that matter had cried less than a week ago during the closing invitation hymn at church: “Out of my bondage, sorrow, and night,” it started, and the whole song was a back-and-forth list of things a person was being taken out of and being led into instead.

The
out
of's all fit him perfectly—“shameful failure,” “unrest,” “life's storms,” “earth's sorrows”—and all of the into's were things he craved—“freedom,” “joy and light,” a “sheltering fold.” And then there was his favorite line of the whole hymn: “Out of distress to jubilant psalm.” How could anyone resist a trade like that? “Jesus, I come to Thee”—those were the last five words, words he hoped he never forgot. He needed to sing to them every day to remind himself once again of where he could go for reassurance every time he loosened his hold on the concept of grace.

35

And Grace Will Lead Me Home

Bruce was happy to see that the Cracker Barrel parking lot hadn't begun to fill up. Maybe he could get in and out within an hour. He had learned a long time ago that you could eat fast when you were by yourself. He never took a paperback book or newspaper to read the way he saw other singles do in restaurants.

He didn't need a menu, he told the waiter, a twenty-something with a pageboy and a friendly smile who introduced himself as Peter and told Bruce he would be “taking care of him.” The boy had some kind of accent, too—German, Belgian, Danish, something like that. Or maybe he was Dutch, with his little Hans Brinker haircut. Greenville was attracting so many foreigners now with all its international industries that you could walk through one of the sidewalk cafés downtown and not understand a word. It was pretty amazing, though, the way they could shift into fluent English when they wanted to.

Bruce ordered a pork chop dinner with carrots, green beans, and mashed potatoes. Both corn bread and biscuits, he told Peter, with blackberry jelly for the biscuits. Sweet tea to drink, with extra lemon. After Peter left, Bruce pulled the little jump-a-peg game over to give it a try but stopped and shoved it away as soon as he saw he was headed for the “ignoramus” category. He used to have the pattern memorized, but it had been too long ago.

Though there were still plenty of tables available, he was a little surprised to find so many people eating full-fledged meals at four o'clock. He looked up at the walls at all the old signs. He supposed they had been real products at one time, but he surely hadn't heard of most of them: Norka Ginger Ale, O-So Grape Soda, Morrell Snow Cap Pure Lard, Tops Snuff, Pollard's Tablets for Stomach Disorders, Beau Monde Corsets, Arpeako Sausage.

The hostess escorted a couple to the table right across from him. The man said something, and the woman emitted a shrill, tittering laugh. Bruce thought of a girl he had known with just such a laugh. He had taken her out once—and only once, after listening to her laugh for three solid hours. There were worse things than eating alone, he thought as the woman laughed again, then slipped off her shoe to rub the man's pant leg. She had a little blond corkscrew of a ponytail sprouting from the top of her head, and it bounced up and down every time she laughed. Bruce hoped his food would come soon.