Suncatchers (30 page)

Once in the last year or so, well after their marriage had taken its wrong turn, she had said to him, “The supreme irony of it all—Perry Warren, the
sociologist
, the writer, the famous reporter of human behavior, has no clue about what's underneath a relationship.” She had been standing in the doorway of his study eating an apple. He still remembered the furious crunch each time she took a bite. He had refused to look up at her, so she had finally spun on her heel and left, calling back over her shoulder, “See Perry. See Perry observe. See Perry write. See Perry miss the whole point of it all.”

She had come back a few seconds later, having finished her apple. “I just thought of something,” she said. “You're as clever with words as a juggler, but you're a clown when it comes to knowing what they
mean
when you put them all together.” That was so like Dinah to be so close to a cunning analogy but fail to clinch it. The circus idea had lots of potential, but she had stopped short. Perry had written her statement down after she left again and had spent the next half hour developing it into a complete, well-shaped, tightly expressed paragraph. He had even included a ringmaster and an acrobat in the little composition.

Eldeen had told Perry once that Willard used to court Myra Gresham, who ran a day-care center over in Pelzer, but that it had ended and he had never married, as if it had been his choice. Perry's first assumption was that no one would have the man, but after he joined the choir, he rethought the matter. Willard was overweight, true, and he was probably considered a religious wacko by the people he worked with at the public library, but he had a lot going for him, too. He was unfailingly courteous, well organized, and obviously intelligent. He had a quick wit, too. Once in choir practice Edna Hawthorne had mentioned that her husband used to play the violin, and Willard had asked her if he'd played pastoral symphonies. He was always playing with words and mispronouncing musical terms on purpose. “Let the fermata ferment a little longer!” or “I want to hear that crash-endo now!” or “Shh! That
dim
abbreviation means dim your headlights.”

So Willard Scoggins had his eye on Jewel Blanchard. Perry was sure she must be several years older than Willard, although she didn't look it. He watched the two of them as they went into the living room and spread the sheets of music out on the piano. He could see them from where he was sitting. Willard was standing behind Jewel and leaning over her shoulder, singing the melody close to her ear, his broad backside hiding all but her head from view.

While Joe Leonard dished out the ice cream, Eldeen got out paper napkins, folded them in half, and set a spoon on top of each one. “I sure hope nobody got hurt in that fire,” she said earnestly. “I can still hear that siren inside my head. What a awful thing it would be to die in a fire!”

20

A Broader Picture

So
that's
what Eldeen meant. There it was, right in the book of Deuteronomy. Perry had heard her say it at least a dozen times and had always wondered what she was talking about. The last time had been only a week before, on their way home from Wilderness Gospel Camp. She had been looking through a teen magazine distributed to all the campers before they left and was reading aloud a true story about a young man named Doug Salmani who had been addicted to drugs since the age of twelve but had gotten saved when he was twenty and now gave talks in junior high and high schools about the harmful effects of drugs.

Eldeen had read the words distinctly and slowly, clearly intending everyone in the car to pay attention. “‘Without Jesus,' Doug says today, ‘my life would be totally messed up. I might not even be alive if that man hadn't cared enough to stop and see if I needed help that day. I didn't know what to say the first time he asked me if I knew what would happen to me if I died, but now I can answer that question. If I die today, I'll be in heaven!'” Eldeen closed the magazine and smacked the dashboard with it.

“Thank the Lord for sending that faithful Christian man along to witness to that boy!” she said. “But, oh, just think, just
think
of all the youngsters like Doug who're still drug addicts! Where are the mamas and daddies of all them children? Why don't they
see
what's happening in their very own homes?”

“Lots of them are in the same fix as their kids,” Jewel said from the backseat. “The children just act like they see their parents acting.”

Eldeen sighed. “That's the honest-to-goodness truth. Even Christian parents don't always see what little copycats children are. Oh, how important it is to
live right
in front of your boys and girls!” And that's when she said it again, pitching her voice slightly deeper, as if she were a radio announcer. “Bind them as frontlets and write them upon thy doorposts and gates when thou sitteth and when thou lieth and when thou walketh and when thou riseth up!”

Perry saw now that she had misquoted it a little, but at least he would understand the allusion from now on. After reading the rest of the chapter in Deuteronomy, he turned to the book of Acts and read about Paul and Barnabas on their first missionary journey. It interested him to see how frank the Bible accounts were. Whoever wrote it could have left out so much and made the people seem far more saintly. But no, there it was, reported bluntly: “And the contention was so sharp between them, that they departed asunder one from the other.” Imagine, two missionaries involved in a big argument over who was going with them on their next trip and then having it recorded for all succeeding generations to read.

When Perry had mentioned to Brother Hawthorne in privacy that he thought it would be a good idea for him to familiarize himself with the Bible in order to write his book more knowledgeably, the pastor had nodded gravely but, Perry thought, had also looked deeply satisfied, as if he were marking the progress of some building project. Perry had opened his mouth to assure Brother Hawthorne that his interest in the Bible was merely professional and academic, in conjunction with his research, so he could understand his subjects better, but he had stopped. He hated to squelch somebody's hopes. Let the pastor think whatever he wanted to, he had decided.

Brother Hawthorne had suggested that Perry begin reading in both Genesis and Matthew, working his way through the Old and New Testaments at the same time. He said that reading several chapters at a time like that would give a broader picture and would also reveal the unity of Scripture. He further suggested ending each day's study with a chapter or two from the book of Psalms.

Perry turned now to Psalm 111. He loved the beauty and simplicity of the psalms. He could see how people could feel rested, even transported after reading parts of the Bible like this. He liked the poetic flow of the verses, the repetitive refrains and elegant clarity. Even though the agitated chapters, in which the speaker was crying out for vengeance, didn't seem quite in keeping with the others, they still had a certain purity and dignity about them.

He had just read “The Lord is gracious and full of compassion” when the telephone rang. He got up from the kitchen table, taking his Day-Timer and pen with him. He had been expecting the call. Cal often called him from his office at home on Saturday mornings.

“So
what
are you doing down there, Perry? What's this stuff you just mailed me? I send you down there to write a book about a church, and what do I get? Nothing like what I was expecting, I'll tell you!” Cal's voice was friendly underneath the blustery complaints. “Got the envelope yesterday and tore into it, thinking, ‘Must be the first few chapters from my good pal, Perry, the writer our publisher is counting on to send us a manuscript ready to go by the first of the year.' Couldn't wait to see something in writing finally. So I start reading and I say, ‘What
is
this? Has Perry flipped out or what?' Hey, maybe I'm thinking of somebody else, huh? I sure thought you were the one writing the thing about fundamentalists.” He paused for a moment, then laughed. “So what is this you sent me, Perry?”

“It's a short story and a poem,” Perry said.

“But you don't write short stories and poems,” Cal said. “You write kids' novels and sociological research, the latter being what you're presently under contract to do. Or have you forgotten?”

“Take a deep breath, Cal. Calm down. It's all right.” Perry began doodling on a blank page in his Day-Timer, scribbling a series of circles and loops. “I haven't forgotten about the book. I'm working on it. I really am. I write every day. I've got tons of notes. It's coming, I promise. There's no reason to send you anything yet. Or have you forgotten how I work?” He stopped scribbling and started looking for a pattern in the jumble of lines.

“No, I haven't forgotten—but a story and a poem? You've never done this before, Perry, especially not right in the middle of another project.”

“Have you read them?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“And?” Perry saw the profile of a face emerging from the network of scribbles. He began retracing the lines to make them darker. The forehead was flat, but the nose was an enormous inflated sac. The lips were puckered in a heart shape, and the chin protruded to a long narrow tip.

“And what?”

“Come on, Cal. You're my agent, and sometimes even my editor before the real one sees the stuff—I've listened to you more than once. You know I have. And once in a great while you're my friend. Don't play with me now. You think you can sell them?”

“Oh, maybe—probably, at least the short story,” Cal said, sighing, “if you're not picky about where.”

Perry could hear him tapping something against a hard surface.

“Perry?” Cal's voice became serious. “You all right, really? I mean, this story is—well, it's just so
different
from anything you've written before. This man-woman business—it's not like you. I'm not even sure I catch it. I mean, I started out thinking it was supposed to be satire, just knowing you. Then I finished reading it, and I thought, ‘He's not kidding.' And then I thought, ‘Naaah, he
is
kidding.' Is there something here I'm missing? I can't put it all together—this story and what you've been through in the past year. Are you . . . are you okay, Perry?”

“Sure I'm okay. You're making more out of this than you need to. So I try something new—so what? Give me some leeway here, Cal.”

“Now, see, that's what I mean. If there's anybody I can count on to be consistent, it's you—or at least that's the way it's always been before. But now all of a sudden you're talking about change and leeway and trying something new. Perry, remember when I suggested a couple of years ago that you try writing an adult novel next, and you didn't even let me get the whole sentence out of my mouth? No, you said. If you've got something that works, stick with it, you said. If you sell adolescent books, then write adolescent books, you said. Remember?”

Perry didn't answer. Above the flat forehead he began creating a pompadour that gradually worked into a beehive of ornamental curls.

The tapping sound stopped, but Perry could still hear Cal's heavy breathing.

“Okay, I give up,” Cal said at last. “I can take a hint. But listen, if I hear you jumped off a bridge, I'm not feeling guilty, I'll tell you that. I tried. Or if they call me up and say, ‘What can you tell us about this Perry Warren guy who just flung himself in front of a moving train?' I'll say, ‘Not a thing. You know as much as I do.'”

“Fair enough,” Perry said. “What about the poem? Can you send it somewhere?”

“Poems are crappy to market. You must've known that, or you'd have sent it off yourself like every other writer of the stuff does. Agents don't bother with poetry, Perry. It's not even worth the postage.”

“Try,” Perry said. He drew a conversation balloon coming out of the heart-shaped lips. Inside he printed,
“Agents don't bother with poetry!”

“I've never wasted my time with anybody's poetry before. I hate poetry.”

“Yeah, well, just stick it in an envelope and mail it somewhere, okay?”

“You lazy bum,” Cal said.

“Right—I'm down here in the trenches, and I take a little break, just a little one, and what do I get?”

“Who's the kid in the poem anyway? Is he yours?” Cal asked.

“Cal, you don't look for real people in literary art. How many times have I told you that? But no, he's not mine. Definitely not. Maybe he's what I wish mine would become.” Perry immediately wished he hadn't said so much. He heard the rustling of paper over the telephone.

“I like the old lady in the story,” Cal said. “I won't ask you who she is, though, since she's in a work of literary art.”

“She just fell onto the page,” Perry said. “She was easy.” He heard Cal turning more pages.

“Well, you never know till you try,” Cal said after a few moments. “I send off things all the time that I don't think have a snowball's chance, and they get snatched right up. But then a lot of the stuff I think is great gets turned down over and over. Like the thing about the zoo doctor that Breshkin wrote. Fascinating story—and true, too. But nobody'll buy it. Strange how it works.”

“Guess I should feel encouraged, huh?” Perry said. He made a small ear out of a squiggle and began drawing an elaborate earring on its lobe.

Cal laughed. “I'll see what I can do, Perry, but don't cross your fingers. In the meantime, get back to your book. No more experimenting for now, okay? They want a manuscript by January, you may recall.”

“They'll get it,” Perry said.

“And how are you getting along with the brethren at the church?” Cal asked. “Any new developments?”