The transgression had weighed on him for months, a worry about whether his intention made a difference. Had he risked his soul? And almost worse, might his trespass be somehow discovered and put the church he’d founded in jeopardy? But then, the Baptist minister called him Brother Gary and asked him to read the twenty-third Psalm at the funeral, as a professional courtesy, and Gary took it as an answer straight from Jesus himself. He was recognized as a man of God. He’d been forgiven.
Gary knew that men stray but that as long as repentance was genuine, there was, indeed, salvation. There were, after all, worse sins than fornicating. He’d yielded to temptation, yes, but when he’d read the words, Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever, he’d understood. Mercy. Mercy was the operative word in the message to him, and he had been given that gift. He would lie down in green pastures and by still waters. His soul was restored. Forgiven, though it was his task to safeguard his church and the souls gathered in it. Confession would be selfish.
Good works were the key. He needed to show his gratitude, that he was committed to growing the church. After the funeral, he told his mother and aunt that he would drive his aunt’s car and possessions home to Indiana, that she needn’t hire anyone. Of course, his aunt CarolSue protested that he didn’t have to do that for her, but he insisted, telling her that a U-Haul trailer would be far less expensive, and he would take much better care of her things than a stranger. He would load and unload them himself, too, and they could be placed exactly where she and his mother wanted. A much better Plan than theirs, surely. When CarolSue said, “But Gary, that’s just too much for you to have to do for me. I’d insist on paying you,” he answered, “You know what would really help me? If maybe you could either make a donation to the church or better yet, maybe do a little volunteer work sometime when we need help.”
He saw his mother—never a big fan of his work—shoot a warning glance at his aunt, but CarolSue, who could usually be counted on to take his side, hardly hesitated before she said, “Well, I’d be happy to make a donation.”
Maybe this was why he’d been tempted and fallen. No telling what greater good might come from drawing Aunt CarolSue in. It was set in motion now, anyway. The women would be home in Shandon well before him, since they’d flown out this morning and he was hardly making sixty-five miles an hour up I-75 in CarolSue’s car with a fat U-Haul hitched behind and swaying when he turned; the rest of the traffic was doing close to eighty. It was harrowing, but worth it, even though he really couldn’t see what was behind him.
Chapter 4
CarolSue
“The house looks nice, hon,” I said when Louisa came in the back door. “You didn’t tell me you put up shelves in the hallway bathroom.” We’d just arrived from the airport and were opening the house up, and bringing our things in from her car, which she’d left at the Indianapolis airport. It had taken us an hour and a half to get to the farm from there and I was plain worn out, but Louisa had run out to check the chickens and let them out of the coop. The animals always come first with her.
“Oh, you made it in there before you collapsed, huh?” she said, mocking me for being sprawled on the couch.
“Right behind you, Sister. As usual, you were blocking my way. You coulda used your own . . .” I said, meaning the bathroom that was off the master bedroom.
“I, uh . . . don’t go in there.”
“Huh?”
“I don’t use that one.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing, I . . . nothing. Let’s get you settled. We need to do Gary’s old room over for you. I asked Gus a couple days ago and he said he’ll paint it. There’s not much of Gary’s old stuff in it, so I’ll get it packed up and we’ll make it really comfortable and all yours. Shouldn’t take long at all. I want you to pick out your own curtains and spread anyway.”
I knew I was sitting there looking stupid. I just wasn’t sure if I was too tired to follow what she was saying or if it just made no sense. If nothing was wrong with her bathroom, why didn’t she go in there?
Then she insulted me. “Why are you sitting there with your mouth hanging open? You look like you’re trying to catch flies. That’s what I have Marvelle for.” Marvelle was Louisa’s tuxedo cat who was too lazy to catch a fly lying dead on the ground in front of her. Right then, in fact, she was snoring in a late patch of sun on the rag rug, right where she’d be most in the way of anyone who wanted a snack in the kitchen. Like me.
Diversion was one of Louisa’s tactics; I’d been on to it for years. “Why on earth wouldn’t you use a perfectly good bathroom? You’re making about as much sense as Mom used to.”
“None of your business,” she said, ever the eloquent former teacher. “Let’s put your stuff away.” With that, she picked up my suitcase and cut from the living room through the kitchen and down the hall.
“How’d you ever come up with such an original line?” I shouted after her. Irritated, I hauled myself up and followed her. Hungry, and done in, I thought, This all is a mistake. What am I doing here?
Why can’t I just stay in the guest room? I came to my senses with the thought and then immediately said it out loud to her. “Why can’t I stay in the guest room? Huh?” She was putting my suitcase on Gary’s old bed as I stood in the hall, demanding. I went to the next door, the one to the guest room, which was closed, and turned the knob.
Oh. It was obviously being used. Not at the moment, I don’t mean, but someone was using it regularly. Or wait. Two people. A man and a woman. Those pajama bottoms laid on the bottom of the bed sure weren’t Louisa’s, and neither were those giant brown slippers sticking out half under the bed. But that flowered robe hanging on the hook sure was, and so was the hand lotion by one side of the bed. There were little scattered things around the room, a lot of Louisa’s, I saw, but some others that I knew weren’t hers: petroleum jelly, for example. Louisa can’t stand that stuff. Then, the cincher. A pill bottle on the night table next to the bed. I picked it up. No!
Yes. A certain well-known medication for older men afflicted with a condition that affects their romantic functioning.
“Louisa! Oh my God! Are you and Gus . . . doing it?” I yelled it out. I couldn’t help myself.
“Are you snooping? Get out of there.” There’s no mistaking it when Louisa gives an order.
I went to the door of Gary’s room. “You’re doing it!”
“Maybe.” She didn’t look at me. She was pulling stuff out of Gary’s bureau—old sweatshirts—and stuffing them in my suitcase. The clothes in my suitcase had been piled on his bed.
“I don’t want Gary’s crap in my suitcase.”
“I don’t have anything to put these in. It’s temporary.”
Dammit, I got off track. “Never mind. You’re doing it. And you didn’t tell me!”
“Don’t picture that.”
“Oh my God, you’re blushing. You’re doing it. Does he . . . live here?”
“Of course not! What kind of tramp do you think I am?”
“Hmmm. Well—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He calls on me and some calls are a little longer than others. We . . . nap.”
“Is that what you call it?”
I got her defiant look then. “We nap.”
“Right. You nap. And what am I supposed to do while you nap?”
“I