Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [13]
“Paul has,” Patricia said, brightening. “And he’s good.”
Paul smiled and looked down, obviously pleased. But he said, “Now, no I’m not, or we wouldn’t have lost so many people.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“But I’m not trained. Just a well-read retiree. Been a Sunday school teacher, superintendent, that kind of thing, for years. But the people are ready for a real preacher. If you’re up to it, Pastor Carey.”
It sounded so good to be called that again. Things had been so bad in Foley for so long that the people had quit calling Thomas “Pastor.” They had gone to “Reverend” and then finally to just “Thomas.” Now he felt emotion welling as he recalled that Grace often referred to him as “Pastor” in front of others.
“I’ll consider it an honor to address the flock tomorrow. And then I suppose I’d better start making the rounds of the other congregations and formulating some sort of a plan of attack.”
“Well, they aren’t really congregations per se, Pastor. Barely hanging on as I understand it. You know what you ought to do? Start a little committee to oversee the rest, make them satellite churches or sister churches, something like that. Strength in numbers, you know? I’d be happy to head that up for you.”
“And I’d be happy to serve on that committee too,” Patricia said.
9 p.m. | The Darby Trailer
Brady knew enough to hide his pilfered cigarette pack in the inside pocket of his jacket, which hung in his tiny closet. It didn’t help.
As he sat there smoking, his mother said, “You better be buyin’ your own.”
“I wish,” he said. “Beer store’s still carding, you know. I been making do with your leftover butts.”
She rummaged in the cabinet above the sink. “I thought I had six packs left.”
“You keep track now?”
“With a thief like you in the house, ’course I do—hey! I had another whole carton! Brady!”
“What? Don’t look at me! Like I’d steal a whole carton from you! That’d be a little obvious, wouldn’t it?”
“It is obvious! Now where is it?”
“I swear, Ma, I know nothing about it.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Okay, I’m a liar. I stole ’em and sold ’em to Petey and his friends.”
“I’m sick of you being smart with me, Brady. I ought to—”
“What’re you gonna do, smack me? I wish you would.”
“Just tell me where my other carton is.”
“I told you—”
“Yeah, you even swore, like that’s gonna make me believe you. Now come on, those aren’t cheap.”
“I didn’t take ’em, Ma. But I will tell you this: I forgot to lock up before we left this morning, so . . .”
“So someone came in and stole my cigarettes and nothing else? And they didn’t take them all, just one carton? What do you take me for?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Oldenburg
While Grace stayed with Patricia Pierce and settled into one of their guest rooms, Thomas rode with Paul to the Oldenburg Rural Chapel a couple of miles away.
“I’m embarrassed by how it looks,” Paul said. “But with so few people, we just don’t have the funds to keep it up. Truth is, most of what is done I’ve had to pay for. The others haven’t been blessed like Patricia and me, but on the other hand, I can’t finance everything. Wouldn’t be right. And wouldn’t teach these people how to do for themselves.”
A teenage boy was mowing the grass in front of a plain, redbrick building with a Norman Rockwell steeple. In the sanctuary, several women were dusting and vacuuming, and they looked embarrassed to have to greet the new pastor in their work clothes.
Thomas was impressed by the sanctuary; he’d never seen anything like it. Old burgundy drapes and a wood-stained cross provided the only contrast to white pews, white walls, white doors, white trim, white ceiling, white platform furniture—including the pulpit—even white light fixtures.
“It’s really quite beautiful,” Thomas said. “I can’t wait till Grace sees it. Clearly someone designed it this way on purpose.”
Paul grimaced and nodded toward the pastor’s study, and Thomas followed him in. “You can camp out here any time you want, even if you’re planning messages for the other churches.”