I don’t believe that.
You said you wanted to hear this.
I don’t believe Frank would steal.
He had some of the money, that’s all I know. I don’t remember how they discovered it but the owner gave him a break, told him he could just give it back and leave.
He must have had a reason, Mary said. Her eyes filled with tears again.
I’m sorry. Can I get you something?
No. I’m all right. I just need to sit a minute.
The old waitress moved away and Mary sat still for a while and then stood up and placed money on the table and went out to her car. It was a little past noon.
She was four hours driving home. She drove cautiously getting out of Denver and went too slow on the interstate so that cars and trucks racing past honked at her. By the time she reached Brush she was so tired that she stopped in the parking lot at McDonald’s and put the seat back and rolled the windows down. She went to sleep at once. An hour and a half later when she woke she was sweaty and hot.
She started the car, turning the air-conditioning on, and ordered a large cup of iced tea at the drive-up window and then drove back to Holt through the wide-open flat country and the mile roads and the pastures and the stubble. In town she turned north on her own street and looked at all the houses and then parked at home. She took her purse and the empty thermos and passed through the wrought iron gate and on up to the house. It was quiet inside. As soon as she stepped through the door Lorraine came out from the kitchen. Mom. Are you all right? You look tired. You had us scared.
I’m all right.
You shouldn’t take off like that all alone.
Well, I did.
And you’re all right. Nothing happened.
I’m worn out, that’s all.
Did you find him?
No. He wasn’t at the café.
That was so long ago, Mom.
I had to look somewhere. I tried his apartment too. I don’t know where he is. He’s disappeared. He’s out in the world someplace, in thin air. He’s not coming back.
No. I don’t think he is, Mom. He doesn’t want to be found anymore.
I can’t just forget him. I can’t.
I know.
Well, she said. She put her purse and the thermos on the table and looked around. How’s Dad?
About the same. Maybe a little worse.
What did he say about me leaving?
He didn’t know what to say. Neither one of us did.
Well, I’m back now.
She walked into the bedroom and he was lying on his back, the sheet over him. He turned to see her. His eyes looked dull. Is that you? he said.
Yes, honey. I’m home now.
Did you find him?
No. I never found him. She came close to the bed. How are you this evening?
Not much good.
34
THEY MET IN THE BASEMENT of the church in what was called the fellowship hall. A big open room with a kitchen at the back, with the smell of mold rising from behind the trim at the edges, and long folding tables and metal chairs stacked against the wall, and an old upright piano in the corner.
Outside the church the light was beginning to fade, and there was a little breeze. But it was dark down in the basement and the recessed ceiling lights had been switched on.
The five members of the ministerial relations board were there along with the assembly director from Greeley, a middle-aged man with bifocal glasses. He was wearing a white shirt and tie but it was a warm evening and he had draped his coat over a chair. They all sat around one of the long tables that had been unfolded and set up.
The director had opened the meeting with a prayer and then they had begun to discuss Reverend Lyle. The board wanted to put this outrage and unhappiness and disruption behind them, they wanted Lyle to be replaced, to be discharged and not to be allowed to preach in Holt again.
Maybe he doesn’t even want to, one board member said. He wasn’t here this last Sunday.
No, he was here, one of the others said. He just didn’t do any preaching.
Would you be willing to allow him to stay, the director said, if I talked to him and he agreed to avoid this kind of controversy?
I don’t want to take the chance, the first man said. There’s no knowing what he’ll say when he gets up in the pulpit. You can’t trust him. He could say anything.
But I think he would be willing to make some kind of promise if I talk to him.
I don’t even want to try.
What about the rest of the board here?
They looked back at the director, in his tie and white shirt, and didn’t say anything.
I’ve spoken to him by phone, he said, but I haven’t seen him yet. Does he look pretty bad? I understand he was attacked.
Attacked. I wouldn’t call it that, another man said.
What would you call it? I heard two men stopped him at night and beat him.
He was out wandering around town at night, looking in people’s houses. What would you expect? After what he said in church.
And you think that justifies what those men did. Settling the score for the whole town, so to speak.
I’m not saying that. Did I say that?
But they did hurt him.
A little. Not much. I don’t think he was hurt very bad.
That makes it all right then.
No. Somebody roughed him up. We know that. But nobody knows who. If anybody knows who it was they aren’t saying. And he never made any complaint or accusation to the police. It wasn’t much anyway.
So he’s all right now. He’s not seriously hurt.
He’s able to talk at least, the first man said. Like we said, he came to church last Sunday and spoke a little.
What did he say?
I wasn’t there. I heard he just said that he didn’t have anything more to say. He told people to go home. It wasn’t a sermon.
It was then that Willa and Alene Johnson opened the basement door and looked in at the board members and the director.
Yes? the chairman said. We’re meeting here, Willa. This is a board meeting.
We know you’re meeting. That’s why we’re here.
But you’re not on the board. This is a private conference.
I know, Tom. I’ve been on the board myself. Before you were even a member of the church, when you were still just a little boy scurrying around here in the basement bothering people.
She and her daughter stepped into the room and shut the door. Willa was carrying her purse. Otherwise they had nothing with them. They came up to the table where the five men and the director were sitting, watching them.
I want to talk to you, Willa said.
But you shouldn’t even be here, the chairman said. I’ve already told you. You must see that.
I know what the rules say, but we’re here nevertheless.
Let’s let her speak, the director said. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear her.
But this isn’t the normal way, the chairman said. This isn’t official now. We’re going off record now.
Have we met before? the director said, looking at Willa.
Yes, but you don’t remember. I’m Mrs. Willa Johnson and this is my daughter Alene Johnson. We’re both longtime members of this church.
It’s good to see you. Will you sit down?
I don’t think so. I don’t expect we’ll be here long enough to bother with chairs. We know what you’re doing here.
We’re talking about your minister.
You’re talking about removing him. About refusing to let him stay here and preach to us anymore.
That’s still under discussion. We haven’t decided that yet.
You will, she said. Before you do, I’m going to say something in his behalf. She looked at Alene. We’re both going to say something.