If Ruth Rose was telling the truth, Father knew, all right, what was behind Hub’s feelings of persecution. Somebody had been out to get him!
What had Ruth Rose overheard at the church the night before his father disappeared? She’s got nothing to go on.
But who? Laverne Tufts?
A past was a big thing. Jim didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. He knew hardly anything about his father’s past. So why did he feel, suddenly, as if he knew far more than he ever wanted to know?
He crossed Truelove, and just as he reached the walk on the east side, a vehicle passed him and pulled into the next available parking spot up ahead.
It was the Godmobile.
Flustered, Jim pretended not to notice, but the driver’s door opened and it was too late.
“Is that Jim Hawkins?” came the hearty voice of Father Fisher. “This has got to be the answer to a prayer.”
The memory of what Ruth Rose had told Jim flashed through his mind and he was suddenly afraid the pastor might fall to his knees right there on Truelove Street. Instead he took both of Jim’s hands warmly in his own, the way he did at the door of the church after Sunday service.
“How are you, son?” he asked, his grey eyes beaming. They were sharp eyes — little bits of Cambrian Shield granite set in a face that was surprisingly smooth and young for a man near fifty. He was the size of Jim’s father and, like Hub Hawkins, he had grown up on a farm. Though he was now in the business of farming souls, as he liked to say, he still had a real farmer’s stockiness about him — the rounded, muscular shoulders, broad chest and ham-sized hands. Unlike Hub, whose hair had thinned on top and gone to salt and pepper, Father Fisher’s hair was lustrous and thick and raven black. It must be dyed, thought Jim. It was the first time such a thing had crossed his mind. And then he thought, if it was dyed, it was surely the only thing he had in common with his stepdaughter.
“I’m fine, Father,” said Jim. “How are you, sir?”
“Better for seeing you,” said the minister. “We’ve been doing a mighty job of praying for you over at the Blessed T.” He liked to call the church the Blessed T., as if it were a ranch and the parishioners were all cattle waiting for God’s brand to be burned into their hearts. His homilies were always ripe with metaphors. Cattle sometimes, fish other times, needing to be schooled, lest the Devil shark gobble them all up. The children in the congregation would laugh out loud and the parents would chuckle and nod their heads in appreciation. He was a good storyteller.
He was still holding Jim’s hands. It was odd, thought Jim, because it was the second time in less than five minutes that a grown-up had held onto him as if maybe he was going to slip away.
“Are you library bound?” he asked.
Jim nodded.
“Well, bless my soul, I was heading that way myself. They’ve got a new Colin Dexter on hold for me. Do you like mysteries, Jim?”
“Not much.”
“I like a good mystery,” said Father Fisher. “Mind if I tag along?”
“No, sir,” said Jim. He had been flustered when he first saw him, but it was hard to keep Ruth Rose’s loathing of the man in mind when you were in his presence. The pastor seemed almost ready to explode with good will.
They started walking and each time the pastor turned towards him to ask how his mother was doing, how school was going, his cross caught the light. It was roughly crafted but contained chips of a beautiful green crystalline stone. It dazzled Jim.
Then the minister said, “I gather you’ve been seeing something of Ruth Rose.”
Jim answered, “Yes, sir,” before he could stop himself. “I mean, I ran into her,” he added quickly.
“God love us, she’s something, isn’t she?”
“Something?”
The minister chuckled. “I guess you’d have to say she was her own person. An original. I admire that.”
They were almost at the library; Jim was counting the steps.
“She’s full of fire,” said Father Fisher. “Full of passion. That is surely God’s gift to teenagers, isn’t it, a fervent spirit.”
Jim knew he had to say something. “She’s pretty spirited, all right,” he said. Then suddenly he felt as though he had betrayed her.
Father Fisher stopped walking. Out of politeness, Jim stopped, too. The minister was looking into the distance but not at anything Jim could see — his head tilted back a little to one side, like a man listening to some distant sound. It made Jim nervous.
“She’s a troubled child, Jim,” said Father Fisher. His voice had dropped. He spoke tenderly. “Did you sense that, son?”
“She seemed okay to me.” Jim’s eyes skittered away from contact. The minister turned to him, stepped between him and the library, blocking his way as if he could see Jim’s impatience in his eyes.
“Jim, I’m not sure if it’s my place to be telling you this, but I feel I owe it to you as a family friend.” His voice dropped further still. “Young Ruth Rose has had a hard time of it. The death of her father has resulted in some severe psychotic episodes. Do you know what that means?”
Jim shook his head.
“It means that there are times when she loses it, as you might say. Misapprehends and misinterprets the true nature of reality.”
Jim felt the hairs on the back of his head stand up. Father’s voice was so sad and so persuasive that Jim suddenly felt every bruise the girl had dealt him in their first meeting. He could see her bared teeth as she pinned him to the ground.
“Are you okay, Jimbo?” Fisher asked.
Jim couldn’t look at the pastor. He nodded. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I mean, about Ruth Rose.”
Father Fisher smiled at him and rested a fatherly hand on his shoulder.
“You’ve seen it happen, haven’t you?” said the pastor. “Seen her fantasies get the best of her.”
Jim glanced up at him and he wanted to nod vigorously — share with someone that first meeting in the woods. But somehow he managed to shake his head instead.
“No, sir,” he said. “It sounds bad, though. Scary.”
“It’s a fiercesome sight,” said Father Fisher, a sombre expression on his face. “It’s chronic and that is tragic in one so young.” He squeezed Jim’s shoulder.
“I really am sorry,” said Jim. Father Fisher let his hand drop.
“I’m sure you are,” he said. “And I’m sure you will understand that one must be very careful with the girl. She’s as smart as a whip, Jim. But the thing is, you see, she hears these voices. Voices whispering awful things, telling her to do awful things. I hope she didn’t scare you?”
Before Jim knew what he was doing, he found himself nodding. Then he caught himself.
“Not really,” he said. “I mean, she surprised me, I guess. But she didn’t say anything weird or anything.”
Jim was sure he saw relief in the pastor’s eyes. “Good, I’m glad to hear that,” said Father Fisher. “When she’s on her medication, she can remain stable for considerable periods of time. But when an attack comes on…well, ‘attack’ just about sums it up.”
His face distorted in a convulsion of grief. Then the expression passed and the minister fixed Jim with a weary smile. “She has been institutionalized,” he said. “We really hope it doesn’t come to that again.” He sighed. “Poor Nancy.”
Jim nodded again.