The Sinners' Garden Read online

  “That’s awesome,” Rip said. His muscles tensed and he laughed, thinking about what he was going to say. “It’s funny. I remember calling that flower bed a little piece of heaven when I first saw it. Wouldn’t it be cool if I was right?”

  “A little piece of heaven?”

  “You were practically begging me to go across the canal yesterday, telling me I would get better if I did.”

  “I don’t remember saying that,” Judi said. “And I’ve decided you aren’t jumping it on that old motorcycle. Even if you make it, the bike will probably bust apart on the other side, and you’ll definitely be dead.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Rip said. “But think about it, Judi. What if it really was a little bit of heaven? Why not? If it is, I really will get better if I go in there. Anybody sick would.”

  “Then why haven’t you gone over there yet?”

  “I’ve got some work to do.”

  “On what? The ramp or the bike?”

  “Neither,” Rip said, thinking about his last conversation with Pastor Welsh. “It’s what Andy has been saying. I just don’t know if I’m ready yet.”

  Andy handed Chelsea a Coke and joined her at the picnic table behind the house. They had spent the early afternoon at the park, watching her brother’s baseball team run through some drills. After all, losing every game by ten or more runs was pretty hard work and took practice.

  It was another boiling day, and he and Chelsea were going to swim just off the dock on the lake, and then maybe he’d take her out to The Frank and Poet on his motorcycle to see the wildflowers and the new ramp Uncle Rip had built.

  He still hadn’t said anything to Chelsea about Uncle Rip’s health, doing his part in keeping it a secret, not to mention that Chelsea already had enough to think about with her little sis, who’d spent the last couple days in the hospital. Mrs. Cochran was taking a break from the hospital and had also been at the park. She looked like she hadn’t slept in about a year, and Andy was half tempted to tell her to take Marjo out to the wildflowers.

  “What is the latest with Marjo?” Andy asked. “I didn’t want to bring it up with your mom around.”

  “About the same,” Chelsea said. “But we sure are lucky that Mr. and Mrs. Hart are doing the fund-raiser.”

  “I guess so,” Andy said.

  Andy figured Mrs. Cochran would think he was crazy if he told her about the garden, so he thought the second best idea he had all day was to not tell Chelsea what he really thought about Mr. and Mrs. Hart. But still, what they were doing was a good thing and he hoped everything would work out.

  “Ready to go swimming?” Andy asked and gulped down some of his Coke.

  “Yeah,” Chelsea said.

  Andy had put his swim trunks on when he had fetched the Cokes, and Chelsea was wearing a one-piece swimsuit under her shorts and T-shirt.

  “I have a question,” Andy said as they walked toward the dock.

  “Go for it,” Chelsea said.

  “Everybody’s telling me I can hear God, talk to God, and feel God’s presence without my iPod. I went and visited Pastor Welsh at St. Paul’s and could feel God a little bit there, but other than that I haven’t felt anything and I really want to. How do I do it?”

  “Lots of ways,” Chelsea said. “Mostly by praying, though. When you open your heart, sometimes you can even hear and see God in other people around you.”

  “I know about praying,” Andy said. “But there are so many things I want right now, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  Chelsea stopped walking and so did Andy. She squinted and shook her head as if she was disappointed. “You might want to start by thanking God for what you have, instead of telling Him what you want.”

  “What if I told Him I wanted something I already have?”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Andy clammed up. He wanted to hear God again through the iPod, to feel His presence in the garden. Heck, he even wanted Milo back. And those were all things he had . . . once. He really wanted Uncle Rip to stay alive, which was something he had right now.

  “How about Marjo?” he said at last. “You already have her in your life, so if you pray that she will get better, isn’t that basically telling God you don’t want to lose her?”

  “I thank God every day for giving me that day with my sister. And I mean that day.”

  Andy thought about what she said and realized he’d never thanked God for his Uncle Rip, or anything else, for that matter.

  They started walking again, and when they hit the dock, Andy couldn’t help but notice the scar near the top of Chelsea’s leg, and she flat-out busted him staring at it.

  “Dog bite,” she said, sitting at the end of the dock and dangling her legs into the water. She ran her finger along the scar. “I was like four years old when it happened.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Andy said, sitting next to her.

  “Seen worse, eh?” she asked, taking his hand.

  Like, every day, Andy thought.

  “How did you get yours?” Chelsea asked.

  Not that we’re comparing apples to apples, he thought.

  “Me, my uncle, and my mom were just talking about this,” Andy said, watching as a school of minnows passed beneath their feet. “I was a little younger when I got mine. I was three. It was a couple days before Easter and some boiling egg water kind of ended up on my face.”

  Andy waited, hoping he wouldn’t hear that one word.

  How?

  Instead, Chelsea asked a more painful question. “May I?”

  She had taken a handful of the hair that covered his scar and was asking to pull it back so she could look. Andy felt his heart starting to pound, and it felt like someone had just put his head underwater.

  Still, he closed his eyes and said it.

  “Sure.”

  She pulled the hair back off the scar. He fought to not jerk his head away. His eyes were still closed and he could feel her examine the scar. And then he felt something else. It didn’t last long. It was quick. It was clean. It was painless. It was magical.

  A kiss.

  “All better,” Chelsea said, standing and giving him a beautiful smile.

  She’d kissed him. On the scar.

  Andy quickly stood on legs that didn’t feel like his own. She had tucked his hair behind his ear and he ran his hand across the scar, a part of him almost wondering if it was gone. In this moment, it didn’t matter who could see it.

  “You okay?” Chelsea asked.

  Andy wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he finally said, “Yeah.”

  “Good,” Chelsea said as she laughed and pushed him into the water.

  Judi had dropped Rip off at St. Paul’s and he was sitting in the first pew, waiting for Pastor Welsh to get back from volunteering over at Mick Solack’s food bank. It was way too quiet and he was staring at the cross that hung against the back wall. It looked bigger today.

  The tests from U of M didn’t quite agree with everything Doc Strater had said. Strater had given him maybe six months. Today, they said they’d be surprised if he made it three.

  They did, however, like Strater, seem to marvel at how well he was still getting around. Then they informed Rip that with or without chemo and radiation, his lung capacity was disappearing and he would slowly suffocate.

  At least I have that to look forward to.

  He heard the door open behind him. He already knew it was Pastor Welsh, and even if it wasn’t, he didn’t want to look away from the cross. It made him feel good.

  Welsh sat next to him.

  “I just got off the phone with Judi,” the minister said.

  “Still crying?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rip thought about the way Judi’s voice sounded as she encouraged him to go to the wildflowers. She was like a little kid. Innocent and filled with trust, knowing that the only thing that could make him better was just on the other side of The Frank and Poet Canal.

 
A little piece of heaven.

  But still, he didn’t want to go over there for one simple reason. The bike was as good as it was going to get and the ramp wasn’t half bad. He figured that even with a bad jump . . . he’d easily clear the canal.

  But could he make it into the flowers?

  He knew that didn’t have anything to do with the bike or the ramp. It was all about the operator.

  “I prayed about it,” Rip whispered.

  “As we all have,” Welsh said. “From the second we first knew you had cancer.”

  “No,” Rip said. “You told me if I prayed about it, that I’d know when I was ready to die.”

  “And?”

  “I’ve been staring at this cross for the last forty-five minutes, talking to God. And I was thinking about how you told me that sometimes it’s not about what we have to do, but about how we have to think.”

  “And what’d you come up with?”

  Rip swallowed heavily and pointed at the cross. “It starts right there. Life starts at the cross and it just keeps growing. I know what I’ve been missing. This whole time I’ve been acting like Joe Christian and doing my best. Trying to fix what I did wrong.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “But it’s not enough,” Rip said. “It will never be enough. And the funny thing is that I’ve been lecturing people about how they could have a relationship with God for free because the price was already paid. But you know what? I never really thought about what that truly meant.” He let out a breathy laugh. “And it’s the only thing I needed to know. The only thing.”

  “What do you mean, Rip?” Welsh asked.

  Rip lowered his hand and bowed his head. “He died for me. He would’ve died for me alone. Regardless of what I’ve done or not done. Regardless of what I could do today or tomorrow. I’ve asked for forgiveness for all I’ve done wrong, and He’s forgiven me. I’m covered. He covered me. He’s always had me covered.”

  “Rip?” Pastor Welsh said.

  Rip wiped his eyes and looked at the minister. “Yeah?”

  Welsh smiled and put his hand on Rip’s shoulder. “You’re ready.”

  Something seemed different about downtown Benning. Rip opted to walk back to Judi’s from St. Paul’s, and instead of going down the lake side and cutting through the woods, he decided he’d go the long way, which took him right through town.

  When he stepped into the shade under the awning of the old IGA, he could feel about a thirty-degree difference in the temperature. He put his hands up around his face, as if he were holding binoculars, and leaned against the window, looking inside of the abandoned grocery store. It was dark and the whole space was nothing but empty floor. He looked over in the back left corner, near the exit, and remembered the day he got fired. He was sixteen, six foot three, and high as a kite. Mr. Schwartz looked up at him and told him that “smoking drugs” would stunt his growth. Rip pulled back from the window and let out a little laugh. Maybe old man Schwartz was right. He hadn’t grown an inch since.

  Rip turned around and walked across the street toward Mack’s, and when he hit the sidewalk, he glanced back over his shoulder for another look at the old grocery store. Then he watched a few people walk in and out of the sporting goods, the barber shop, and then the gas station.

  The barber shop, Rip thought. How many haircuts do I have left?

  Rip smiled, but it wasn’t a good smile, because being ready to die didn’t necessarily mean you were willing. He thought about how he would trade places with any of the people he was looking at, because what was happening wasn’t fair.

  All the peace he’d felt the day Strater had given him the diagnosis, all the peace he’d felt in St. Paul’s an hour ago seemed to up and leave him. The farther he walked, the angrier he became.

  He had tried to turn his life around, tried to do everything right, and look what was happening to him! He could feel his fists clench and he wanted someone to be responsible for the fit of rage that ran through him. He shook his head and looked up at the sky.

  “Is this what I get? I turn my life over, do my best, and this is what I get? I know I’m covered! I know I’m ready! But, Lord! I want to live.”

  Rip crossed his arms and looked at the ground, shaking his head again. He didn’t like waiting. He remembered the only thing worse than going to prison was waiting to go to prison.

  And now this. More waiting. Waiting to die.

  He didn’t want anybody to see him so he walked into the alley that separated Mack’s from the pharmacy. Then he crouched down and covered his face with his hands, shaking with his anger.

  “You okay, man?” someone said behind him.

  “I’m cool,” Rip said without turning around.

  Whoever he was, he had just come out the back door of Mack’s. “You sure?” the man said.

  Even though he hadn’t heard the voice in a while, it was a familiar one. Rip stood and turned around.

  It was Eric Bower. The man who’d basically cost Rip three years, almost ten percent of his short life.

  Rip clenched his teeth and started walking toward Bower, and when Bower recognized him, his eyes widened and he started walking backward so fast that he tripped over a parking block.

  Bower was on his backside rowing himself backward on the gravel, using his hands as oars. “Please, Rip,” he said. “I’m sorry, man. Please.”

  Rip walked faster toward him and his rage continued to grow.

  “I’m sorry, Rip, please forgive me,” Bower begged.

  Rip stepped over the parking block, leaned over, and grabbed Bower by the front of his shirt with his left hand and then cocked back his right fist.

  “Please!” Bower cried, holding up his hands in front of his face to protect himself. “I’m begging you, Rip!”

  That’s when Rip saw it.

  The blood on Bower’s palms.

  Rip froze and struggled to control his breathing.

  He stared at Bower, at those hands, for what felt like forever.

  Please forgive me, Rip. I’m begging you.

  And then Rip thought about another set of bloody palms . . . and the peace he’d felt. Just an hour ago. Lord, help me. I’m so weak.

  He let go of Bower and crouched down again, still trying to catch his breath. Bower still held his hands up and Rip was saddened by the fear in Bower’s eyes. They continued to look at each other until Rip stood and held out his hand.

  “I’m sorry too, Eric.”

  Bower’s head tilted, almost as if he were unsure he’d heard Rip right.

  Rip leaned closer and Bower took his hand. They made eye contact again but Bower was clearly still terrified. Rip pulled him to his feet.

  “You’re sorry?” Bower finally asked. “For what?”

  “Lots of things,” Rip said.

  “What’s that?” Bower asked, peering at him strangely. “You’re crying, Rip. Sure you’re okay, man?”

  Rip wiped a tear from his cheek and could feel the breeze cooling it on the back of his hand. “I’m gonna tell you something, Eric. Something I want you to remember when I . . . leave Benning. I’d rather live for a year as a Christian than eighty the way we lived once. I mean that.”

  Bower dared to smile. “That church stuff has really affected you, huh?”

  “Talk to Welsh. He’s a good guy.” Rip held out his hand again and Bower took it. “But know everything is good between us, Eric.”

  Bower smiled again and their handshake became a hug. “Thanks for forgiving me, Rip.”

  Rip’s cell phone rang. It was Judi.

  He answered it and it was actually Andy on Judi’s phone. He was out of breath.

  Another section of the garden had disappeared.

  “I think you were right about each section of the garden being for someone,” Andy said. “Mr. Hart must have learned his lesson because the only part of the garden that’s left is the section for you, Uncle Rip. The one that will heal you.”

  “I like your t
hinking, bro,” Rip said, lying on his side on the garage floor next to the old motorcycle. He wasn’t sure if it was the position he was in, or if it was the cold, cement garage floor, but he felt more comfortable than he did standing up. “Hand me that baby screwdriver over on top of the bench.”

  “I know you were right,” Andy said. “First was Mom’s piece of the garden, then Heather’s, then Mr. Hart’s. The last one is yours.”

  Rip smiled. “You seem pretty sure.”

  “Yes,” Andy said, kneeling next to Rip and handing him the screwdriver. Andy looked a little dejected and it reminded Rip a bit of the old Andy. “Other than the dream I had, I still haven’t felt or heard God since we found out you were sick.”

  Rip sat up and poked Andy on his chest with his finger. “Right there is the only place you need to feel God.”

  “He’s right, Andrew.”

  It was Judi. She was standing just inside the garage. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks were tear-soaked. She was holding her finger against her chest and started tapping at it.

  “But Andy is also right, Rip. And I feel it in here,” she said. “I know, just like Andy knows, that you will be healed when you get in those flowers. I don’t care if you go through McLouth, swim through The Frank and Poet, parachute in, or jump over with that bike. Just get over there. Please.”

  “I need to do it on the bike,” Rip said.

  “Just do it,” Judi said. “Go for it.”

  He looked at Andy, who nodded and smiled, looking eager.

  “Maybe it is time. I think this old girl just may be ready for my little leap,” Rip said, handing the screwdriver back to Andy and running his hand along the side of the bike. “Soon. Very soon.”

  FORTY-TWO

  And we still want to encourage as many of you as possible to attend Marjo’s fund-raiser tonight,” Mr. Hart said. “She’s been in the hospital for over a week now, and her family has been with her around the clock. Stop by tonight, and let’s do our best to support this beautiful little girl and her wonderful family.”