The Sinners' Garden Page 13

  “Your mom’s just being weird like usual, eh?” Rip said. He paused and then shook his head. “When you gonna lay off her, bro?”

  Andy rolled the iPod earbud between his fingers and waited a few seconds before he responded. “Whatever.”

  Rip tugged on Andy’s shirt. “That may fly with your mom, but you don’t talk to me like that. Am I clear?”

  Andy didn’t answer and lifted his helmet as if he were about to get on his motorcycle and ditch his Uncle Rip, as well as his sundae.

  Rip laid his hand on the helmet. “Am I clear?”

  “Sorry, Uncle Rip,” Andy said after a long moment, holding up his fist for a knuckle tap. “What am I supposed to do about the things I’m saying? I’m freaking out about it. How would you feel if you were saying stuff you couldn’t control and don’t remember saying?”

  Rip grinned. “Before I went to prison, I had quite a few of those episodes.”

  Andy didn’t seem to find Rip’s pot reference all that funny.

  “You sure you haven’t been studying that Bible?” Rip said. “And maybe somehow zoomed in on a handful of quotes?”

  “I’m positive. I’m telling you the iPod is telling me to say those things.”

  “Let’s just give this a little time and see what happens,” Rip said. “We’ll figure it out. But speaking of Santa, you know what would be a great present for all of us?”

  Andy looked at him and shrugged.

  “And you don’t even have to wait till Christmas,” Rip said, leaning over and putting his arm around Andy.

  “What’s that?” Andy said.

  “Seeing you and your mom getting along better and seeing each of you smile more.”

  Andy stared for a second and then said, “Smile about what?”

  “There are lots of things to smile about. C’mon, man.”

  “Like what?”

  Rip stuck his spoon in the middle of his sundae and set it on top of the picnic table. “Some things have to be funny to you, Andy. Some things have to make you happy.”

  “Lots of things make me happy.”

  “Name some,” Rip said.

  “Milo, my motorcycle, you, and—”

  “Chelsea Cochran?” Rip edged in, nudging Andy with his shoulder.

  “I think she’s pretty,” the kid admitted.

  “That’s something to smile about.”

  Andy shrugged. “I know I smile inside sometimes. But I guess a lot of my smiles just get smothered by the time they reach my ugly face.”

  “Hey,” Rip whispered. “Don’t be obvious, but turn around. She’s looking at you.”

  Andy quickly spun around, and Chelsea Cochran, who had her head halfway out the server’s window, retreated.

  “Way to be subtle,” Rip said, shaking his head. “Anything in particular about don’t be obvious you didn’t understand?”

  “She would never go for me,” Andy said.

  “Why?”

  “Because she is really pretty, and I look like someone who answered the iron when the phone rang.”

  Rip had heard Andy say that before. He also remembered Andy crying on the phone when he called from prison. Andy had told him about some of the names he had been called. Pizza face. Freddy Krueger. Crispy Critter.

  Rip had never felt so helpless, not being able to stick up for Andy. He remembered praying about it. A lot of that harassment, from the locals anyhow, came to an end when Rip was released from prison. One of the few benefits of being a felon on the streets was the tough-guy stigma that came with it.

  “So you’re just going to give up on the idea of talking to Chelsea without even trying?”

  “I just don’t like . . .” Andy stopped and scooped a spoonful of his banana split.

  “Don’t like what?” Rip repeated. “C’mon. You know you can tell me anything.”

  “I want to talk about something else.”

  Rip didn’t want to talk about something else, but he understood. “We can talk about whatever you want.”

  “Uncle Rip,” Andy said. “Why did you sell the wacky?”

  Rip spit out a little bit of ice cream and laughed. “Where did you hear it called that? The iPod?”

  “No,” Andy said. “I read it in a book once.”

  Despite being a loner and having just turned fourteen, it was clear that an answer to Andy’s question, without too many particulars, was in order.

  “I made a mistake, Andy. I let you down. I let your mom down. I let the community down, and most importantly, I let God down. But you know what? It’s over and I’m forgiven.”

  Andy looked like he was about to cry. The kid had always been so good at masking his tears. His shoulders hunched and he leaned against Rip. Rip could feel his nephew shaking, but he couldn’t see any tears. After a while, he sat up straight and turned toward Rip.

  “I hate the burn on my face,” Andy whispered. “And I don’t know what to do about it.”

  Rip wasn’t sure what to say, and the hopelessness in his nephew’s eyes threatened to poke a hole in his heart. He gave Andy another squeeze and looked back at the server’s counter.

  Chelsea Cochran was looking at them again.

  That You, Lord? Rip asked silently, taking a bite of his ice cream. You mean to use Chelsea in this kid’s life? Give me words, Father. Words this kid needs. Words I can’t come up with on my own.

  And in that moment, Rip knew he would kill for the iPod to speak to him for once, instead of Andy.

  Kevin Hart walked across his office and glanced at his watch, wondering what was taking Ripley so long. He grabbed his phone, hit the pound sign, and Lynn, his secretary, answered.

  “Yes, Mr. Hart?”

  “Where’s Ripley? I paged him, like, ten minutes ago.”

  “He’s coming, sir.”

  “When?” he asked, thinking about the way Lynn had said sir. He liked the ring it had to it, but didn’t want anyone thinking his employees were supposed to call him that, even though they were. He glanced at his watch again.

  “I tried to buzz you when you paged him, but your phone was set on private,” Lynn said apologetically. “Your door was closed too, so I didn’t want to disturb you. He was still at lunch with Andy. I just saw him out on the floor and paged him again.”

  “Sorry about that,” Hart said. “I didn’t know the phone was on private. Have him knock first when he gets here.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “You’re the best, Lynn. Thanks.”

  She really was the best. He’d seen old photos of her from company picnics. She was quite the looker back when his father had hired her, but even if she were about a hundred years younger, he still wouldn’t dare go fishing off the company dock.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “C’mon in,” he called.

  Ripley opened the door and took a few short steps into the office. “You looking for me?”

  Hart leaned forward and rested his elbows on top of the desk. He nodded at the chair to his left. “Have a seat.”

  Ripley pointed at a fresh oil stain on the side of his beige work pants. “I don’t want to get any of this stuff on your nice chair.”

  “Good call,” Hart said, standing. “You know, Rip . . . I don’t know how else to say this, but I’ve really tried to be good to you.”

  “And I appreciate—”

  “Your job, your home . . .” Hart paused and then exhaled powerfully, wondering if he was being too theatrical. “And what I get in return is being insulted by your nephew in front of half the church.”

  “C’mon,” Ripley said. “Andy has no reason to insult you.”

  “Exactly,” Hart said. “Not without coaching, anyhow.”

  “Coaching?”

  “I don’t stutter, Ripley.”

  Without being asked, Ripley turned and quietly shut the door. He looked back at Kevin, hands on his hips. “You are insinuating I got him to say that?”

  Hart tilted his head and didn’t answer. Insi
nuating was a pretty big word. Maybe Doper still has some of his smarts left.

  “I didn’t coach him on anything,” Ripley insisted. “He’s referencing things from the Bible, Kevin.”

  “I didn’t know Andy was a big Bible reader,” Hart said. “In fact, I’ve never heard him quote scripture before. What I don’t care for is that he walked up to me, in front of everyone, and quoted them like they were a lecture.”

  Rip held up his hands. “I don’t know what’s going on. Seriously. Andy doesn’t know the Bible that well, but he did the same stuff last night. With us, not just you.” He shook his head. “I’m pretty sure Judi has him going over to Doc Strater’s later in the week to see if everything’s okay.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Hart came around the front of the desk and sat on it. “But let’s keep this simple. I really don’t think it would be good for anybody if this sort of thing happened again, Ripley. Another word from Andy, to me.”

  “But—”

  He held up his hand. “Ripley,” he said, “you may have seen or heard things around town that might have given you the wrong impression about me.”

  “Kevin, I’m not trying to—”

  “You familiar with the food-chain concept, Ripley?”

  “C’mon, Kev. You serious?”

  “Keep that Andy on a short leash. I’m warning you.”

  Rip straightened. “Excuse me?”

  He didn’t like the way Ripley was looking at him. He waited patiently and stared at Ripley’s fists until they uncoiled. He loved that he could make the thug back down. He knew he’d hit a hot button, particularly with the pothead’s history of getting physical with anybody who messed with his family.

  He finally grinned, making it clear who was in charge. It would only take seconds for Ripley to understand that if he started huffing and puffing, he would only end up blowing his own house down. Three . . . two . . . “I’m not kidding, Ripley. Don’t let it happen again.”

  One . . .

  “Anything else?” Ripley asked, turning partially away, as if to remind himself of his boundaries.

  “Nope,” Hart said. “It’s probably best that you keep this little chat between us. Other than that, thanks for stopping by, and I’ll see you at Bible study tonight.”

  Rip sat between Heather and Andy, listening to Jimmy Keeler give his weekly commentary on how it was practically impossible for anyone over sixty-five to survive on just social security. Jimmy then asked the group to pray that the cost of his monthly prescriptions stop going up, and then finished by asking God to soften the heart of “that crook down in Monroe,” his dentist, so he would lower the $3,600 price tag on his new dentures. Jimmy figured if the Lord really wanted him to pay that much for new teeth, he’d ask for forgiveness and then just be happy eating bread and soup for the rest of his days.

  It had been a pretty decent turnout for Bible study. Andy had, for some reason, decided to tag along. Rip hoped Heather would ask the group to pray for both her and her concerns about her father, but he wasn’t all that surprised that when her turn came, she didn’t bring it up. Still, it had been a good night of sharing, mostly among the regulars, with a few new faces there who asked for prayers.

  The new woman in town, Brianna, was the reporter Heather had invited. She seemed like a nice girl, asking for prayers that God watch over her in her transition as she moved from Ann Arbor to Benning.

  The rest of the group mentioned sick relatives, expressed some agreement with Jimmy Keeler’s financial woes, and all nodded obediently as Kevin Hart asked for the community’s prayers in handling the food drive and the fund-raiser for little Marjo Cochran.

  Pastor Welsh then looked to Rip expectantly. Rip knew what he wanted. They’d talked about it. And Rip had no problem talking about how he’d come to know Christ and was looking forward to sharing tonight. If only Kevin wasn’t here.

  Keep him on a short leash.

  Rip looked at Andy, who was sitting next to him, and then at Hart, who was right across the circle. He was proud of himself for the control he’d shown in Hart’s office. In his previous life, the only thing that would have beaten Hart to the hospital would have been the front bumper of the ambulance. Now it was pretty simple. Despite the temporary urge to introduce Kevin to Mr. Knuckle Sandwich, he didn’t do it for one reason, and it had nothing to do with the food chain. The reason he didn’t lay a finger on Hart was simply because it was the wrong thing to do.

  “I think Rip was going to share his testimony tonight,” Pastor Welsh said, as if Rip might’ve forgotten his promise. “Rip?”

  Rip took a deep breath and nodded at Welsh.

  “I remember sitting in court, waiting to be sentenced,” he said, without preamble. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and looked at the floor. “It’s a lot easier to accept guilt when you’ve been caught. My eyes were closed and the world seemed so small to me. Judi, Andy, and Heather were behind me with Pastor Welsh. I didn’t have much support from anyone else, and frankly, I didn’t deserve it. I was the type who only talked to God when I needed something. And right then I needed Him more than ever. My plea agreement was for a sentence of somewhere between sixty-two and eighty-four months, but the judge had discretion to go above or below those guidelines, including the possibility that I’d only get probation. I prayed. I asked God to keep me out of prison and give me just one chance to turn my life around. I promised Him that I would be a better man, better uncle, friend, brother—a better Christian. I knew I could do better. All I wanted was to stay out of prison.”

  Pastor Welsh leaned forward and his voice was low, like he was doing a side commentary in a movie. “We can always do better. Every one of us.”

  “True,” Rip said, glancing at Kevin Hart. “And you know what? In His infinite grace and wisdom, it only took God about ten seconds to answer my prayer. He said no.”

  He reached over and squeezed the nape of Andy’s neck, and for some reason, Andy didn’t shy away in his normal sea of embarrassment.

  “Prison was God’s way of putting me in time-out. Even though I always had the time, prison gave me some patience. It taught me to slow down, and it taught me to look for what I needed. What had been there all along.”

  “What was that?” Hart asked with just enough conviction to come across as sincerely interested.

  “God,” Rip said quietly.

  “Amen,” Pastor Welsh said. “Too many of us are in a hurry.”

  “You’re right,” Rip said. “We get into our routines. We wake up, take a shower, eat breakfast, kiss the kids good-bye, come home, eat dinner, kiss the kids good night, then get up and do it all over again. We don’t make time for God, when in reality, it’s the only time we really need.”

  “Keep going,” Welsh said.

  “I was like that,” Rip continued. “Always in a rush, and I always needed everything right now, even results from God. And every time I talked to Him, I expected heaven to immediately open up, rain manna, or give me whatever else I wanted. But it doesn’t work that way. Sometimes we get what we need, instead of what we want.”

  “Hmm,” Hart said, nodding, his brows furrowed, pretending he was truly absorbing Rip’s words. Rip tried to ignore him.

  “God has been good to me,” Rip said, bowing his head and slowly shaking it. “So anyhow, I started praying while I was in prison. I prayed about the things I had done that I was ashamed of. And then, instead of being impatient, I waited, listened, and most importantly, watched . . . watched what was happening around me. And then I started seeing things that could only be coming from Him. And in time, His time, I just knew.”

  “Knew what?” Hart asked. He honestly sounded sincere this time.

  “That God is who He says He is, He’s going to do what He says He is going to do, and that we all have access to Him.” Rip paused and locked eyes once again with Hart, then patted Andy on the arm. “We aren’t here for our own good. We are here to glorify God.”

  “What does tha
t mean to you, Rip?” Pastor Welsh pressed. “Glorifying God?”

  Rip considered the question. “For me, it’s doing all we can to reflect Him. Making amends for the ways we screw up.” He shrugged. “I feel like I owe Him . . . we all owe it to Him to do what He tells us to do. To live the way He wants us to. It’s not always easy and we will certainly make mistakes. But we should at least try . . . and I guess that’s sorta what I’ve been trying to do.”

  Pastor Welsh nodded and smiled. “Thanks for sharing, Rip.”

  Andy immediately stood up and walked away from the circle. Maybe it had been too intense, but that was okay. Andy went to the counter and held up an earbud and fiddled with the iPod. Rip looked over at Hart and back to Andy, who was smiling with his eyes closed as if he were trying to look into the sun. Rip tensed. Another word for Hart? It’d be the end if—

  “Gerald Michael,” Andy said.

  Rip stood as if he were told to. He knew what was coming was for him. Who else referred to him as Gerald Michael?

  “Yes, sir,” he said without thinking about it.

  “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

  Everyone there except the reporter knew Andy, and they all just stared in silence. Hart broke it.

  “Who taught you that, Andy?”

  “That’s also from the Bible,” Rip whispered, turning the words over and over in his head.

  “Who taught you that, Andy?” Hart asked again.

  Andy made a fist and lifted it to the ceiling. His fingers splayed, as if stretching, reaching. But his head came down, his blue eyes completely focused on Hart.

  “I’m not sure why He’d pick me, Mr. Hart, but I think it was God who told me to say that to Uncle Rip.”

  He stared out the window at the moon, shuffling through the prayer request cards, wondering which ones he could maybe help God come true.

  Heather wants the “discipline” to save $7,500 so she can go back and get her teacher’s certificate . . .

  Adam Vitale wants another promotion . . .

  Marjo wants to be healthy . . .

  Mrs. Miller wants a new puppy . . .