Do No Evil

By Les Alldredge

Good vs. Evil all Christians know the ultimate outcome of this perpetual struggle, but what about on a less cosmic level? What about our personal conflicts urban violence, domestic violence, the daily challenge of making choices that are love motivated and honor God instead of being evil and self serving?
This book follows a young urban couple, Samuel and Penny, as they try to honor their love for each other and Christ while confronting the attacks of an evil world. They are confronted by violence, greed, mayhem, hatred, prejudice, and revenge during an unusual courtship. But theres much that is unusual in this relationship.
Pennys West Virginia heritage is not what you might expect, and Samuel has much to consider before he commits to a life-long relationship with her. His nominal Christianity is no match for the forces that confront him. Theres much for him to learn, and discover.
But hes not the only one with a quandary; Penny has to be very careful just who it is she marries. Not everyone can bear up under the weight of the legacy she is heir to, a legacy that is centuries old, dating back to the first human presence in the West Virginia mountain country she calls home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Feb 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449706319

Les Alldredge

Les Alldredge was born in Texas where he received a BA in Bible from Abilene Christian University, but has lived 39 of his 64 years in Alaska. He has been a life-long, but imperfect Christian. His interests include scripture study, poetry, art, travel and garage sale treasure hunting.

Book preview

Chapter 1

See how the evildoers lie fallen—thrown down, not able to rise!

—Psalm 36:12

Penny had been toying with an angel torn out of a paper napkin. She set it aside and rested her eyes on me tenderly. "My answer is definitely maybe, she said in her genteel Southern voice, but you don’t know all that you’re askin’, and I wouldn’t expect you to know or to be committed to something so … so … unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. Until you’ve had a chance to see what you’re gettin’ into, it wouldn’t be right. She took the grey velveteen ring box from my hands, closed it gently, and handed it back to me. Thank you, Samuel. I want to say yes so bad, but—well, keep the ring for now, and know that I do love you."

Maybe is good, maybe is good, I said as I got up off my knee and sat back into my seat, disregarding the profound disappointment I felt. Keep the ring, I said, extending it to her again. "Wear it, and you and I will both know it is a maybe ring."

No, Samuel. She smiled. "We both know it is an engagement ring. And everyone who saw it would know it is an engagement ring. I will wear it when we are engaged—if we are engaged. Two conditions are very important before that happens: first, my family has to meet and approve of you. I don’t see that as being a problem, because you’re wonderful. Second, you need to meet and approve of my family and all it means to be married to me."

She spoke with such peace and calm determination that it was unsettling.

When can I meet your family then?

How ’bout Labor Day weekend? Maybe you can take the last couple of days of your summer vacation and we can drive down then.

Just three weeks away, I thought as relief washed over me.

Oh, OK, I said. Great. That’s wonderful. I’ll go home and get packed tonight.

She laughed.

Penny had always been a bit hazy about her family and past, but here and there something would drop into the conversation that intimated strength, depth, and portentous mystery.

Tell me about them, I said. I mean how is it they are so … um, different?

"I have told you about them, she said, laughing, but no more right now. It’s gettin’ late, and I need to get home; but remember, even after I’ve told you all I can, you will only almost know them. My family has to be experienced to be known; and even then there’s more to them than meets the eye."

We stepped out into the New York City night: looming brownstones and streetlights under a starless strip of darkness overhead.

Do you want to take the short, efficient route or the long, romantic route? I asked. It was only a few blocks to her apartment here on the west side of Manhattan.

You choose, she replied.

We headed toward Central Park. Somewhere a steel drum was playing a soft Caribbean melody. Penny was beautiful in her black velvet dress. I tried to absorb it all—the night lights, the August heat, the Caribbean music, the thrill of her next to me—that she had said maybe … I was drunk on the liquor of the moment when the sidewalk seemed to rise up and smack the left side of my forehead. My first thought was that I had tripped over something and that I must have seemed to be such a clumsy oaf to Penny. I struggled to get back to my feet.

That was just to get your attention, you honkey piece of trash, a voice snarled. Now get up and give me everything you have in your pockets, or I will, as God as my witness, blow your brains all over Central Park and take it myself. Get up! he said, and kicked me hard in the back of my left thigh. Get up, cracker! he kicked me again.

The kicks weren’t helping any. I felt Penny lifting me, holding onto my arm. With her assistance, I managed to struggle dizzily to my feet, blood streaming through my eyebrow, down the left side of my face, and oh man, dripping on my new shirt, tie, and suit jacket. The barrel of his gun was about half an inch from my face. He was holding it sideways. Tough guy, I thought. I emptied my pockets of my money, and wallet and put them into his outstretched hand, but I kept the ring.

Watch.

I slipped my wristwatch off and placed it in his extended hand. He wasn’t a big guy—maybe six feet, slender, cornrows under a skullcap.

OK, now turn your pockets inside out, he said, glancing at what I had given him and stuffing it into his pocket.

You got everything, I said. Now let us go. I felt Penny give me a warning squeeze on my arm.

It’s all right, she said, go ahead and give it to him.

Yeah. What she said, he demanded. It’s all right. Go ahead and give it to me.

The ring represented six month’s wages, a good portion of my life savings, but that didn’t matter now. It was Penny’s ring, and I didn’t want this hoodlum to have any part of anything that belonged to her.

The night with Penny had been almost perfect, the restaurant, the dinner, the proposal; now this had to happen. I handed him the soft grey box.

Ooooh, yeah, he said, as he opened it, Sweeeet … must be a full carat.

It’s 1.24, actually, I said as he pocketed the ring and threw the box aside.

Shut up! he said, slapping me across the face, setting my ears to ringing.

What kind of a man am I, letting this happen? He’s got a gun. I can’t do anything. What must Penny be thinking? This is shameful. I can’t do anything, but I’ve got to do something. What, though? He’s going to hurt us; he’s going to hurt Penny. The thoughts were elbowing each other aside to get my attention.

He gripped the neckline of Penny’s dress and jerked her to him. The dress tore open, exposing her to his leering gaze.

Come here, bitch.

She tried to pull her dress back together, but he wouldn’t let go his grip on it.

No need for that, he said, jerking her into a crude embrace, we goin’ to have a little party.

It was then, when he was distracted, when he had torn the veil and looked into the Holy of Holies, when everything I held dear had been yanked from my arms, that my pain and dizziness vanished. In one swift movement, I reached across and grabbed the back of his wrist—the one holding the gun—with my right hand and yanked it forward as I pivoted on my right foot toward him. In the same motion, I snapped the knife-edge of my left hand into his throat at the base of his Adam’s apple in a sharp, vicious motion. Then I grabbed the other side of his wrist with my left hand and lifted it—still holding the gun— up over my head. I spun, and yanked it down violently. His elbow broke with a satisfying pop, and he flipped through the air and slammed down hard and flat on the pavement. The gun shot off the round in the chamber, and then flew out of his hand and skidded across the sidewalk.

I felt the bullet rip a burning gash through my calf; I fell on the pavement next to him, his face just inches from mine. He was rocking back and forth, making little guttural sounds, left hand at his throat, eyes wide and straining, strangling on his crushed windpipe. I twisted and clutched at the searing pain in my calf.

Penny leaned over and put my arm around her neck and helped me to my feet. We staggered over to a lamppost. Be right back, she said, leaning me against it. She walked back to the writhing figure on the sidewalk, leaned down next to his face, and shouted, Your behavior makes me want to puke! I wish you were back in Keyhole, West Virginia, where we know what to do with the likes of you! Then she reached over and pulled my watch, money, wallet, and her ring, from his pocket and scooped up his gun and the little grey box on the way back.

That’s my Penny, I mumbled adoringly and fell in love all over again.

Let’s get you home; you’re a mess, she said as she tossed the pistol into a trash bin.

I gave her my most fetching, lopsided smile and passed out just as I heard her say, Hey, how about a hand here?

Chapter 2

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.

—2 Corinthians 1:3–4

I woke up in heaven. Penny, my angel Penny, was sitting on the edge of a cloud and coaxing me to open my eyes and have something to eat. Soup? No, tea—not something to eat, something to drink. And it wasn’t a cloud, but on a chair next to her couch. Ooh, and my head hurt and my calf. No, it was my whole body, screaming from the insult of the attack and the bullet wound and the outrage of the violation. Maybe this wasn’t heaven after all.

Come on, now, let’s have a little drink of tea, my mama’s secret recipe. It’ll do you good.

I sipped obediently. It was good; rich and tart, satisfying a deep, carnal craving. My hands shook as I gingerly sipped the boiling hot liquid. Rivulets of healing warmth grew to streams of steadiness as the herbal heat coursed throughout my aching body. Everywhere the pain was gently eased into relaxed steadiness.

Penny regarded me quietly, then said, That was some move you put on that guy back there. Where did you learn how to do that?

Oh, it’s something I had been thinking about for a long time. It was a ‘what if’ fantasy I have played over and over again in my mind.

What? She asked incredulously. "A fantasy?"

You know, what if a mugger attacks you when your girlfriend is with you, what if he has a knife, a gun—you know, a fantasy. And that’s the move I always use. I said drowsily, Grab his wrist, I yawned, pivot, karate chop to the throat. My eyelids felt so good when they were closed. Twist the arm. I yawned again. I’m … just … surprised … it … I gave a very long yawn, worked. My energy gave way, and dreamily, I slipped back into the restaurant.

Samuel, what are you doin’? Penny asked, speaking in her silky, sweet, genteel manner even in her shocked surprise. The southern softness in her voice, so out of place in New York City, was what had first drawn my attention to this beautiful woman six months before. I had heard her speaking behind me at a party and was compelled to discover who could remain so demure in the city’s tell-it-like-it-is and what-do-I-care-what-you-think environment. Snow White among the dwarves.

The candlelit dinner at the five-star restaurant, their best wine, the quiet conversation were all leading up to this moment, when I set my napkin aside and eased down on one knee in my brand new suit and tie, asking her to marry me.

It’s important that you meet my family first; I can’t tell you why, but you will know when you meet them.

We stepped outside into the night; the Caribbean melody segued into a gospel song. The night of the city eased into day.

I opened my eyes; the music of the gospel song was softly playing in another room.

When peace like a river attendeth my soul, when sorrows like sea billows roll … Penny was singing along with it. I had never heard her sing before. I eased up off my back onto my elbow and slowly lowered my good leg over onto the floor. This was not going to be easy, but it was time to use the bathroom and there was no denying the Need.

My fantasy had nothing in it about getting shot. And getting shot was nothing like in the movies. My leg was stiff, my calf feverish, swollen, and throbbing; my whole body screamed in protest of being moved. The pain was only barely tolerable. I pulled a chair closer and used it to haul myself upright, got dizzy and fell back to the couch. I tried to muffle the Yeow! that came out, but I never had been too good at suffering in silence.

I gripped my calf and tried to massage away the pain. But the Need would not wait until the pain subsided and would not be ignored, so I took hold of the chair again and hoisted myself up once more, this time more slowly, expecting and working through the pain and the dizziness.

Penny heard the commotion and came to the door of the living room and looked on approvingly. That’s my man, she said, up and around at the crack of noon.

The unexpected unsympathetic humor brightened the day. How ironic. I replied. Saved from a mugger by a sadistic princess. How long am I to be your prisoner?

B’s and T’s. she replied. About as long as it takes for you to be able to negotiate down the stairs and flag a taxi.

I had always respected Penny’s feelings about her family’s borders and traditions, or B’s and T’s, as she referred to them for short. She put a lot of weight on what her daddy thought, and one of her daddy’s thoughts was that no good comes of time a single girl spent with a man in her apartment (or his, for that matter).

That long? I replied, shuffling toward the bathroom. Two years?

Her laughter slowly distanced as the bathroom door swung shut. I looked in the mirror and was startled by the bandaged wreck that looked back. I had forgotten being thrown to the pavement, but my body hadn’t. A bloodshot left eye peered at me darkly through swollen purple eyelids; a jagged two-inch cut atop a large goose egg on my forehead had been washed clean and expertly taped shut with three little butterfly bandages; blood and serum fluid had oozed and crusted along the seam of the cut. My shirt had been removed; my t-shirt had two large blood stains on the chest. The left pant leg of my new trousers had been cut open up to the knee, and the bullet wound, which was a nasty little gash at the back of the meaty part of my left calf, had been washed out, sterilized, and butterfly-bandaged as well. Where would we be without butterflies? I thought.

Hm. Well at least the mugger got the worst of it, I mused. I wondered if he had survived.

I used the bathroom, washed my hands, and then looked back into the mirror. I gingerly palpated the swollen area on my forehead, checked out my profile, grimaced at the ugly appearance, and limped into the kitchen.

You sure are a sore sight for eyes, she joked and held a chair for me to sit down to breakfast.

You’re just full of jokes today, aren’t you? I said, laughing stiffly. "I’ve been shot here, I could have been killed!"

I know, she said sympathetically, suddenly serious, with a touch of fear in her voice, then brightening. But you weren’t! Isn’t that wonderful? Now let’s not make more of this than is meant to be. Sit.

I sat.

She turned to the stove and then returned with a bowl of bubbling hot oatmeal and a plate of buttered toast.

I’m not hun –

Eat, she said.

I ate.

After the first bite, I was glad for the food, as hunger rose to be satisfied by the meal.

How is it you always know just what it is that I need at the moment I need it?

I thought but didn’t say, Before I know I need it myself.

"I am woman," she said.

I finished in silence. It wasn’t so much what she said, which could have been shrugged off as a good-humored sexist comment, but the way she said it. She left out an implied your in the sentence.

Penny for your thoughts, she said as she sat down, watching me finish my last bite of toast, which I was using to swab out the final bits of oatmeal, milk, and sugar in the bowl.

Penny in my thoughts, I replied. She laughed.

I like being yours, I said, licking my fingers. I feel like I belong to you, I said, leaning over and reaching for her hand. Also, the oatmeal was really good. I said, straightening up, Thank you.

The last six months had been a half year of unwedded bliss. After I met her, thoughts of Penelope Hatfield had infiltrated every little cranny in my suddenly disjointed life. There was not a day, not a minute spent without some aspect of her coming to mind, her words, her looks, her dress, her hair, the perfectly manicured nails at the tips of her perfectly shaped fingers and—

Coffee? she asked, pouring a cup full of the rich, dark brew.

Of course. Coffee had never tasted the same after she had prepared her own special concoction of the ubiquitous drink.

I can’t stop thinking about you, I confessed. I can’t imagine life without you. I even remember our first kiss, I said, sipping and for a moment getting lost in the memory. I didn’t wipe the lipstick off my cheek the whole next day.

"That wasn’t our first kiss, she laughed, that was my first kiss. And anyway, it was just a little peck on your cheek."

Oh I know, I said, "but it was so unexpected. It caught me by surprise, and well, it caught me. I’ll never forget it. I couldn’t believe, I just couldn’t believe that you would kiss me … me. What am I? Nothing—a high school English teacher, an unpublished writer—of poetry, no less! What kind of a zero future does that present? I mean, looking at it from the outside. From the inside, I see it as a good way to spend my life, but others don’t usually see it that way, my mom and dad included. But I’ve been over this with you before … Anyway, when I woke up the next day, I had to go and look in the mirror to be sure I hadn’t only imagined that the Blessed Event had occurred. There they were, smudges from both lips—it wasn’t an accident."

Oh, listen to you, she said, so full of flattery! My mama told me, ‘Be careful ’bout those New York boys! So full of flattery … so full of—’ well, I won’t repeat everything she said, but suffice it to say she wasn’t complimentary. And here I am, hangin’ onto every word you say.

In your mother’s defense, I have to agree with her, Penelope, I said maturely, "because those New York boys cannot be trusted. As you well know, and as I have often attested, I am not a New York boy. I was born in Joisey, and at moments like this, I am proud of it. I spend time in New York merely to become acquainted with the riff raff and common folk, that I may interpret their life experiences in poetry so that the rest of the world may pity and sympathize with them. I’ve been doing that for ten of my thirty-two years, and I have just about got the interpretation down pat."

She laughed.

No, seriously, I paused and let the mood deepen, "I am yours. I do not, I will never, belong to anyone else. I … will … do … anything … to fit in with your family."

She took my hand in hers and gently gave it a long, slow, tender kiss, then she took my face in her eyes and said softly, I love that about you. Now go home.

An hour or so later, I had gathered enough strength—and courage—to hobble down the stairs and out to the street to summon a taxi. The taxi driver looked quizzically at my battered appearance in the rearview mirror and shrugged it off (it was, after all, New York). Where to, Sahib?

Seventy-Third and Lexington, I said and braced myself for the ride.

Chapter 3

Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up.

—Ecclesiastes 4:9–10

It wasn’t until I got home that I realized that Penny had made no attempt to call the cops or an ambulance or anything like that. I brushed it off to the Deep South’s rugged individualism and thought no more of it.

There goes $500, I said as I tossed my suit pants into the trash. What an evening that was; one for the books.

Stiffly, I lowered myself into bed and muttered again, One for the books …

Now get up and give me everything you have in your everlovin’ pockets, or I will, as God is my witness, blow your brains all over Central Park and take it myself. Get up!

The barrel of his gun was about a half inch from my face. He was holding it sideways, and he pulled the trigger. He was holding it sideways, and he pulled the trigger. He pulled the trigger. He pulled the trigger. He was holding it sideways, and he pulled the trigger.

I threw the covers off and sat up in bed, gasping for breath, and then pressed the pillow to my face and screamed because of the pain. The bed was soaked with sweat, my throat was parched, my head hurt, my leg was throbbing with each heartbeat, and the night terrors wouldn’t let me sleep. I rubbed my eyes and squinted at my bedside clock: 3:00. I eased to a standing position and stiffly felt my way to the bathroom for a drink.

As the water was running, I looked with renewed appreciation at the battle wounds and congratulated myself for gallantry under fire. My left eye was still swollen and ugly. Pitiful looking; and I was the victor, I thought, and I toasted myself in the mirror and took a long drink of the cold tap water.

The phone rang. I hobbled back to my bedroom through the darkness, bracing myself on walls and furniture. It rang again. OK, OK, hold your horses, I said. I picked it up mid third ring and cautiously held it to my ear.

Hello? Is anyone there? Samuel?

Penny! I said, brightening. What are you doing up at this hour?

Couldn’t sleep.

Me either. Sort of … Just woke up—again—night terrors. Third or fourth time tonight.

Samuel, I want you to know that what you did—I want you to know … You—you were so brave. Thank you.

Penny … he had his hands on you. I hate the thought of it. I’m sorry I let it happen. I feel that in some way I was … insufficient. It was too close.

"Samuel, that’s foolish thinking. You just stop that right now. You didn’t let it happen! You prevented somethin’ much worse from happening. Thank you for protecting me. Anyway, I just wanted to call and hear your voice and know that you were OK And I wanted to tell you how much I admire what you did. I love you."

I love you too, honey. Are you OK? Do you want me to come over?

Oh well, that’s a laugh isn’t it? As if you are in any condition to help anyone right now, you poor dear. No. I’m fine—a bit of a headache I had trouble shaking, but much better now that we’ve talked. Is your leg hurting? I’ll bring some tea over later this mornin’.

Yeah, it still aches. That would be nice. How did you know how to treat a gunshot wound?

Keyhole is a long ways away from the nearest hospital, and what few doctors there are in the area try to teach us how to care for emergencies that might happen. Gunshot wounds are not frequent, but they’re not that uncommon either, what with all the huntin’ and such.

What a treasure you are, a wealth of new surprises every day.

And educated, she said.

Hey, I just thought of the theme for my master’s thesis in anthropology I said. Can an Educated Woman Find Contentment with a Life of Barefootedness and Pregnancy?

Oh, so now you’re going to be an anthropologist? There’s a four-word answer to that question, she said. Perhaps, with the right man.

That’s five words, I said.

Well, choose any four of them you like, she said suggestively. See you in the morning, she said and hung up.

Chapter 4

"Heal me, O

LORD

, and I will be healed; save me and I will be

saved …"

—Jeremiah 17:14a

That morning brought Penelope and tea, and the next and the next. It became a ritual I looked forward to each evening and felt I could not start my day without.

Penny would brew that mysterious concoction her mother had taught her to make, and we would sit and begin the day together. Then she would rush off to work at the Metropolitan Art Museum and I would limp off to St. Anthony’s Prep School to teach summer courses.

I had known her for six months, but during these last few days, I felt I was at last getting to know her really. The cloak of pretense that courtship behavior so easily assumes had been violently ripped away and we stood looking at each other in sudden exposure, a new level of disclosure that was at the same time scary and thrilling.

I tried to write poems dealing with the trespass, the outrage, the violence, the vindication, anything that would help purge the experience from my gut; but the memory of the assault burrowed in like a brooding presence and would not be exorcised.

It was too soon, I guessed. I resigned myself to years before I could deal with the depth and complexity of those dark emotions. My only comfort was that I had been the victor. Penny had not been hurt. I had overcome the threat. But in truth, I knew that that was pure luck. And I was cautious not to entertain a cocky swagger (mentally or physically). I had been fortunate not to have been killed and that Penny had not been … that was where I could not go—what might have happened to Penny. It was bad enough that he had his eyes all over her.

The healing process, which was heavily assisted by, even dependent on, our morning teas caused the three weeks until the trip to West Virginia to go by quickly. Each day brought Penny, her therapeutic brew, morning conversation, and an improvement in my health; evenings were filled with the sweet anticipation of the next day’s visit.

I marveled at the rainbow of color in my face and its gradual descent from my eye down to my cheek. The hemorrhaged blood in the bruise settled in little pockets and tissues and lingered, turning from black and blue to green and yellow as it was gradually absorbed and dealt with by the natural bodily functions and the mysterious lymphatic system.

Too bad the poisons in our society aren’t so easily dispersed, I mused absentmindedly one morning, as I was examining the bruises in the mirror.

What did you say? she asked from the kitchen, pouring my tea.

Oh, nothing, I said as I returned to the kitchen. I was just reflecting on the way our bodies heal, how the, uh, lymphatic system I think it is, and our livers and kidneys and other organs do whatever they do and flush toxins from our bodies. And it all happens naturally without even having to think about it.

And …? she replied.

And … and too bad society doesn’t have a similar cleansing and healing process.

What about the police and the judicial and penal systems?

Not very effective, I’m afraid. I replied. Something like an 80 percent recidivism rate. And a lot of the criminals come out more hardened to society than when they went in, haven’t learned marketable skills, are less capable to fit in because of societal changes, and are unable to make wise decisions because they have been told what to do: when to sit, when to rise, when to go to bed every minute of every day. It would be so much better if society had a reliable process of rehabilitation.

Oh, she said reflectively, pursing her lips. I thought she was going to say something, but then she took a sip of her tea and the moment passed.

Chapter 5

I would hurry to my place of shelter, far from the tempest and storm. Confuse the wicked, O Lord, confound their speech, for I see violence and strife in the city. Day and night they prowl about on its walls; malice and abuse are within it. Destructive forces are at work in the city; threats and lies never leave its streets.

—Psalm 55:8–11

At last it came, the last gasp of vacation before the school year began. We would leave on Wednesday, take a long day to drive down (Maybe two? I had said. No, she said flatly. B’s and T’s.), and have the next four days there, driving back on Labor Day (Maybe two? I had asked. No, she said. ABC’s.).

I hoisted two suitcases into the trunk of my car and drove over to Penny’s. It was 8:30 Wednesday morning; I wanted to be sure to get Penny home to her parents before midnight out of respect for her B’s and T’s.

Penny was standing in front of her apartment building. She had two bags as well. Her first bag fit neatly into the trunk, filling it; the other would have to go into the backseat.

Uunh! I grunted as I tried to lift it into the car. What have you got in this thing, bricks?

Almost as bad, she replied, books. Books that I have borrowed from Daddy’s library and promised to return the next time I came back.

How did you get this out of your apartment and down to the sidewalk?

I asked someone to help me.

That guy’s probably in a hospital right now facing a hernia operation, thanks to his compassionate nature.

Stop it! she said laughing. You make me sound so terrible askin’ for a little help. Anyway, it didn’t seem to be a problem to him at all.

I didn’t like the idea of Penny asking for help from a strange man, but the weight of that bag made me thankful there was still a bit of chivalry going around, even in New York City.

My leg was now dependable, but still weak; the gash had been deep, so it would take a month or more yet to completely heal. Hauling the luggage around reminded me how much healing was still left to do. My black eye had cleared. The cut on my forehead now held itself closed and was slowly sloughing the scab off, working from the outer corners in; about an inch remained to heal, but there was still a lump on my head, and I was beginning to wonder if it would ever go away.

I’m sorry I have to go to your parents looking like I came out second best in a head-banging contest, I said as we drove into the Lincoln Tunnel, leaving Manhattan. First impressions have a habit of hanging on.

Don’t worry about it, she said, family knows about what happened. They all regard you as my valiant knight in shinin’ armor, especially my big brother Homer, who likes you already.

How is it that he likes me? I asked. We haven’t met.

He says he has a feelin’ about you.

What do you think about that? I asked. About Homer and his feelings?

There’s more to Homer than meets the eye. She said reflectively, I would trust him—and his decisions—with my life. He and I are about as close as a brother and sister can get. He’s like my guardian angel; I know he’s only human and has a human’s limitations, but sometimes … she paused; she paused so long that I thought she had let her sentence remain unfinished. Then she continued, and it became apparent that she was searching for the right words to use. Well, suffice it to say that … well … he’s the best older brother a girl could hope for. You’ll see when you meet him.

At that, she turned to look at the glass, steel, and concrete of the New Jersey industrial squalor streaming by, and I turned to my driving.

I always loved the feeling I got as I left the brick canyons of New York City and the huddled suburbia of New Jersey and got out to the farming country of Pennsylvania; the horizon seemed to unfold and stretch out. Weather became something you could see coming and was not just a narrow slot of sky directly overhead. An anvil-shaped cumulus cloud was darkly towering twenty, maybe fifty miles away, but for us, the sun was shining.

My thoughts turned back to Homer. More than meets the eye? I thought, and visions of a hulking bare chested country boy with one-strap coveralls and a Mensa membership came to mind. But he loved Penny, and I could not help but feel a broad kinship with him based on that factor alone.

Chapter 6

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

—1 Corinthians 13:12

We drove on for a while with intermittent conversation, and then somewhere around Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Penny said, Tell me one of your poems.

I had learned years before that a poet’s welcome is soon lost if he prevails on his guests, so I had only rarely shared parts of my work-in-progress with Penny. I regarded her request a polite gesture and decided to let her off the hook easy.

Hmm, I said, "how about this one. I spent years agonizing over the lyrics:

"Penny is a southern belle

Loves her man and loves him well.

Flashing eyes and curly locks

Penny walks and Penny rocks!"

Very funny. I have been patiently waiting for you to share some of your work. Now is a good time. You have a captive audience.

Captive? You can open the door and jump out any time you want.

At seventy miles an hour?

You might be tempted to.

Ha ha, she said flatly. Really. I would like to hear one of your poems, provided—

Provided what? I asked.

Provided you will allow me to express my critical opinion.

Your critical opinion? Hm. Then I might be the one jumping out of the car. I wasn’t aware that you were a student of poetry. I thought American art history was your forte.

Isn’t it amazing how much we don’t talk about when we have other things on our mind? As a matter of fact, just so you know, I audited three years of English, English literature, and poetry while I was enrolled in art history studies at Columbia University.

Oh? I said. To that I’m going to give my snappy Joisey comeback: Wuh, wuh, wuh, oh yeah? She laughed.

How did you have the time to do that? I asked.

You would also be surprised how much time you have when you don’t watch TV and your social life is a bust, she replied tartly. Do we have a deal or not?

I couldn’t help quizzing her. Who is your favorite English poet?

Gerard Manley Hopkins, Shakespeare, and George Meredith, in that order, although the Brownings, William Blake, and John Donne earn high marks as well.

Favorite Hopkins poem? I persisted.

‘The Windhover’ or ‘Carrion Comfort.’ Come on, now, don’t get me started thinkin’ about those poems or I’ll be disappointed with yours.

Ha ha, ouch, I replied. "OK, I am appropriately reprimanded. Sorry for doubting you. Here goes, it’s entitled ‘Mirror Lake.’

"Ten strawny years of farmboy

Whipped that flat fleet-sided stone

Skipping,

Touch and fly, a lone tripper

Cracking mem’ry wall

’Tween scooter-age days and now.

Skimming,

A low split-tongue speaking memory peal

Smashed flat by tomorrow’s real,

He skips."

We drove on in silence as she turned the verse over in her mind. She asked if I would recite it one more time and I did. Then she paused a while and asked if I would do it once more, and I did again.

We drove another fifteen minutes, and then she said, Seems like you have moments of deep sadness. The poem speaks to me of wistful memories and the loneliness of regretted mistakes and missed opportunities. What is that word you use … ‘strawny,’ is it? Is that the word? I’ve never heard it used before.

Well that’s because I made it up, I said. I was looking for a word to describe a skinny little farm boy burned by the sun. I came up with strawny, which is a combination of strong, skinny, and tawny with an implication of straw—straw in the fields, straw in the barn, straw-colored hair. The man’s memory is a flashback of himself when he was a ten-year-old farm boy skipping stones at the local pond.

Oh, OK, a new word, Ogden Nash-like, but serious. I like that when it makes sense … sometimes our language is limited and the words aren’t adequate for what you’re trying to express. What’s that line, um, ‘something flat’ um ‘something, something, real’?

‘Smashed flat by tomorrow’s real?’ He’s been crushed by the weight of his adult responsibilities and can only stay for a short while… in a sense the farm boy sent him skipping out into life. It’s being compared to the way he sent the stones skipping as a youth … the youth becomes the man, the man pauses for idle activity and in reminiscence becomes the youth again in a flashback, for a short while.

"Oh, that’s why it’s called Mirror Lake. I was wondering about the title.

Isn’t that a beautiful piece of convoluted art? It reminds me of those Celtic designs, all turned in on themselves. I like your poem. I like the feelings and the experience it depicts—melancholy, a bit sad, but persevering; endearingly human. Thank you for sharing it. Do you feel ‘smashed flat’ by tomorrow’s real?

Penny was really good at that—the conversation going on in all of its safely intellectual fare, then she comes in with a zinger.

I was surprised at the depth of the emotion that rose suddenly. I paused and practiced some deep breathing while I tried to hold back the moisture welling up in my eyes and searched for words. Sometimes, I said quickly. I did not want my words to come tumbling out sounding like a weakling who can’t handle the disappointments of life and the pain of missed opportunities. I looked toward the side of the road, away from her. Sometimes I do, well, I did, frequently. I felt trapped, stereotyped, condemned to being misunderstood. But then I met you, I glanced over at her; she was looking out the side window, and I felt noticed and appreciated; things that were important to me were important to you. Overnight the world seemed full of hope, bathed in brilliance.

You’re going to love my family, she said quietly, leaning over and looking toward me and squeezing my leg, and they’re going to love you.

With that, she leaned back, bundled her jacket up under her head in the corner of the door and her seat, and went to sleep.

To be known, fully known, and to be loved, who could ask for more than this? And I had always thought of West Virginia as a poor state …

Chapter 7

These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.

—Deuteronomy 6:6–7

Taking Highway 81, we motored around Hagerstown, Pennsylvania, through the eastern panhandle of West Virginia into Virginia and cruised into the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains before she woke up. It was 1:00. We were making good time. I reached over and touched her shoulder, Time for a break, sleepyhead.

I pulled in to a Cracker Barrel and said to her over coffee, So. Tell me again about your dad.

OK, what do you remember?

Let me see, he’s kind of the town leader. He owns the general store and gas station; stays pretty busy with that. He’s gentle and lets everyone run up a tab at the store, which they might or might not be able to pay on time. They love him for his patience and show him a great deal of respect.

‘Mr. Fred’ they call him. Sometimes we get chickens and pigs instead of cash, she laughed. He takes turns preachin’ on Sundays and can’t carry a tune in a wooden bucket, but he loves music. Doesn’t trust outsiders; but he’s always polite even to those he doesn’t trust.

How is it that he let you get off to New York alone?

B’s and T’s. He loves us kids and we love him, but he never raised us to be dependent on him, just obedient. Once obedience is clearly learned, the world is ours to explore and conquer.

That sounds … um … oppressive

What? Expectin’ obedience?

Well, yeah, like you have to do everything his way. Like you have to do what he says every minute of every day before you can get out and do things on your own.

You would have to know Daddy to know that it’s not like that, she said as she took a bite of her lemon meringue pie. "He loves us and wants the best for us. Obedience actually allows us to enjoy the best life can offer.

He always said that he learned the importance of B’s and T’s when he was in charge of the commune.

What! In charge of what? I exclaimed. "For a minute there I thought you said commune."

I did. Commune, you know, where a bunch of people get together, work, farm, and share everything. You know what I’m talking about. They were quite prevalent in the ’70s.

Oh, yeah, I know what you’re describing, a commune, communal living. They shared everything, food, clothing, housing, sex—

"Not my daddy’s commune. They quickly learned that no rules and no restraint led to chaos and misery. They wanted to change society, not destroy it. Somehow Daddy knew at a young age that it was the rules that made the game.

"He explained this to us later: ‘It’s the rules that define the game. Each of the rules is there for a purpose. So it is with the Game of Life. That’s why we have B’s and T’s.

"‘Consider the thief in jail,’ he said to me one time. ‘He wanted to take shortcuts and do things that are not right to try to get more enjoyment out of life. Is he enjoyin’ life now? Don’t ever forget that rules are there so we can get the most out of life and live peaceably with one another.’

And I never have. Samuel, just for example take the ‘be-in-by-midnight’ border he expected us to honor. If you and I didn’t do that, just think of the trouble we might have gotten into; it could have cast a pall on our relationship for years, maybe forever. We did enough before midnight anyway, maybe too much. Her cheeks reddened, and she looked quickly down to her plate.

Anyway, she continued as she poked at her meringue, "Daddy always had our best interests in mind when he made a rule. And he was always gentle, with Homer, with me, with Mama, with the people who owed us money, everyone. Even when people were mean and trying to hurt him, he would be gentle.

"He valued education, but he valued love more. He would often say, ‘Education is the pathway to understanding, but love is the pathway to fulfillment. Both are good, but the second is better.’

He had secrets to share as well, which I am not at liberty to divulge without his approval.

What was that? I said, coughing, caught mid-swallow. What did you say?

Oh nothin’, she replied, just that Daddy knows a lot that he doesn’t share with everyone and he told us to be quiet about as well.

Daddy’s instructions. Obedience. Borders and Traditions;