Remember Who You Are

Ch 3-5

Chapter Three





“I always miss the excitement.” Charles Loftin, pastor-emeritus of New Covenant Church and interim pastor while Wesley recuperated from his gunshot wound, leaned against Susie’s doorjamb with a sly smile on his face. Loftin, meeting all of central casting’s requirements for a perfect pastor – tall, tan, good looking with too damn much hair for an old man – glided into Susie office, grabbed a chair, and straddled it like a cowboy.





“I wish I could,” said Wesley. He, Susie, and Gary had retired to Susie’s office after the confrontation between the police and the Jackson family. The three had just settled into chairs with fresh cups of coffee when Charles Loftin appeared.





“What did I miss? I hurried down here as fast as I could after Susie called. These bones only move so fast, you know.”





Wesley glanced at Susie who only shrugged. “Didn’t think it would hurt. And he IS the current interim pastor.”





Wesley shook his head and smiled. “Always trying to replace me.”





They laughed. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” said Gary Meade.





“I think I have earned a little self-pity. Thank you very much.” The group nodded in silent agreement; each remembering the past few weeks from their own perspectives.





“On that note, Bobby Cochran will be by today to clean the sanctuary,” offered Gary Meade. He is talking about blood thought Wesley.





“I don’t know why that made me think of this, but when did you paint your office?” asked Susie.





Wesley laughed. “I had forgotten. Um, I painted it Saturday night.”





“Didn’t you paint the hallway too?” asked Charles Loftin.





Wesley nodded. “First week.”





“No wonder they tried to fire you. One day, let me tell you about the kitchen.”





Wesley laughed. “Simon told me. This church is crazy.” They all just nodded soberly.





After a moment Charles Loftin broke the silence, “You should be in bed.”





“Forget bed. The big question is, ‘Am I still employed?’”





Susie looked at Charles Loftin to take the lead since he was the better liar. Loftin cocked an eyebrow at Susie before answering Wesley's question, “Well, we have one problem,” Loftin answered. Assuming a casual pose, he leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head, and crossed his legs. “We never finished counting the ballots. You were winning - but we never finished. When I went back last night the ballots were gone.” That last part was true since Susie had snuck in and removed the ballots.





Charles Loftin continued, “I have no idea where the ballots are right now and it would not surprise me if we never saw them again.” That too, was technically true since after Susie and Charles had finished shredding the ballots, Charles had returned home. Technically, he did not know what Susie had done with the shredded ballots. Susie stayed quiet while Charles provided the explanations.





“I doubt it comes up again anyway. The Rosa Lee situation has been resolved and besides, you can't very well fire a hero, now. Can you?”





“Hmpf,” said Wesley. “Not exactly a ringing endorsement.” Wesley paused. “I tried to quit last night. Gary, here, said he would arrest me if I did.”





“And I will,” said Gary Meade with a smile.





“Wesley!” said Susie.





“Good man,” said Charles Loftin, who winked at Gary Meade.





They all laughed.





“Wes, it's no secret, there is a faction of the church that wanted a more experienced pastor. They used the reality tv show as a way to force the issue again. The fact is, you are our minister. And I know you will win them over in time,” said Susie.





Wesley stood. “I think I will go take some pain medicine and hopefully a nap. Can we meet after lunch to talk about committees?”





“Sure Wes. Hey. I have an idea. Monday is Labor Day. Why don't we have a cookout to welcome our new preacher on Sunday after church?”





“I think a cookout would be fantastic Susie. Can I bring the beer? And since it seems I am still employed, I fully intend to take advantage of your generous offer to cover for a couple of weeks. Especially for Rosa Lee’s funeral and Sunday’s service.” Wesley waited, knowing how much Charles Loftin disliked Rosa Lee McFarland. He was not disappointed.





“No one’s coming to her funeral,” said Charles Loftin. Wesley erupted in laughter.





“Charles! Don’t you dare say anything bad about that poor woman,” chastised Susie.





“Well,” Loftin looked around for an escape. “Well,” he paused for a moment. “I will be happy to help out where I can.” Wesley covered his mouth with his good hand and stifled his own laughter.





Controlling his laughter at Loftin’s discomfort, Wesley looked over at Gary Meade. “Glad you came when you did.”





“No problem. Truelove can be a hothead. Pretty good cop when he has his temper under control.”





“There’s been other issues?” asked Wesley.





“Police business,” said Gary, which effectively ended all conversation about Sergeant Frank Truelove.





“How will you stay busy this week?” Susie asked Wesley.





“I can still visit Mamie with Doc Kirby, volunteer at the hospital, maybe go fishing Saturday with Simon. Spend Wednesday in prayer,” he smiled and winked at Susie. He paused and then remembered, “Susie, can we go over the work you did on the committees for me? Maybe Friday?”





“Oh, of course, good idea.”





“Committees?” Charles Loftin shook his head. “Good luck with that.”











Chapter Four





Wesley stood outside the door to the sanctuary. Only yesterday, he had stood outside this very same door, only to go through it and be an intimate player in a murder/suicide. Standing there, Wesley felt a chill slide down his spine. His throat tightened. His palms became clammy and a fist closed around his heart. Wesley’s fear was irrational and he knew it. Knowing that, however, did not help. Wesley took a couple of deep breaths, screwed up his courage, and opened the door.





Nothing surprised him. Hymnals and weekly bulletins were scattered on the pews and the floor, which was the result of the pandemonium following the shooting and the subsequent police investigation. Wesley saw orphaned jackets and a couple of half-empty water bottles. The expected yellow tape cordoned off the first four pews and the entire area between the first pew and the pulpit. The dark red bloodstains where Rosa Lee had fallen were expected. The blood splattered pews and the stained carpet where J.J. died were expected. The entire scene was exactly how Wesley envisioned it. So, it was a minor surprise to Wesley himself when he fell to his knees in panic and started dry heaving. Having consumed only water since Saturday evening, there was nothing in Wes’s stomach to vomit. That fact did not prevent his gut from emptying itself of the fear, anxiety, and sadness that Wesley had experienced since Sunday morning.





Wesley sat back on his haunches and to his further surprise, realized he had started crying. The smell of blood and vomit, the psychological stench of death, the yellow tape all swirled before his eyes as his head jerked from stain to stain, blood to tape, hymnals to water bottles.





Darker than the red of the carpet, splotches and drops of blood were scattered and splattered all over the carpet; only partially and ineffectively contained by the yellow tape. Wesley stared at the dark spots – once symbols of life but now, free from the bodies of three different people – symbolic of death. Washed in the blood, he thought. In despair and grief his eyes darted from drop to drop, splotch to splotch, stain to stain – looking for a pattern, an answer, a hint, a clue. A prayer. All he saw was death.





Rosa Lee’s screams, the popping of gunshot, his own grunts of pain and the screams of the congregation all kept playing and re-playing in Wes’s head, merging and dividing, coalescing into noise then dividing into succinct memories. He could still feel himself helpless, being pulled down by Rosa Lee, the hot metal piercing then exiting his flesh, the thud of the carpet as he hit the floor, Rosa Lee’s dead softness as he lay astride her and felt her last breath leave her body. He could taste the dry metallic tang of something…his blood, Rosa Lee’s blood, the bullet, or death.





Wesley could feel the world and the walls of his mind, the blood, the vomit, the smell, the helplessness, and the guilt, bearing down, pressing, squeezing, crushing, forcing him into the confines of panic and failure.





























 





Chapter Five





Wesley felt like a new man. Since his meltdown in the sanctuary on Monday he had only left the parsonage to walk Lucky around the church grounds in the morning and gain in the evening. Wesley had only eaten cold canned soup during his self-imposed exile and had not showered since Monday. For three days, he had operated in a drug-induced stupor where he remembered nothing and cared less. Now he was standing outside Kim Lee’s office, relatively drug-free – though his arm still hurt – showered and fed (if a bowl of instant grits counts as breakfast).





“Ms. Lee? I don't know if you remember but I'm Wesley Aames….”





“Of course, I remember. Come in. Sit down. What can I do for you Mr. Aames?”





Wesley smiled, catching Kim Lee's omission of his title. She had not changed since he first visited her office the week after Jamie Lee McFarland had committed suicide. Short, spiky white hair sat on top of her head while long blue-black hair cascaded down her back. Her neck originated a spider web tattoo that Wesley assumed continued to her wrists and made him hope he never saw the location of the spider.





One aspect was different. There was a smile on Kim Lee's face. More like a grimace actually, as if the act of smiling caused her pain. A little taken aback by the smiling Kim Lee; but not one to look a smiling gift horse in the mouth – Wesley sat in the offered chair.





“I need a break,” he said without preamble.





“From the teen hotline?”





Wesley nodded. “I am using pain meds to sleep and until I am ready to resume my monitoring I don't think it’s fair for you to have to rely on me. This way, maybe for the next two weeks, someone can replace me.”





Kim Lee leaned forward and placed her tattooed elbows on her desk. “We will need several people to replace you. You have done outstanding work. I truly expected a rash of suicides after Jamie Lee's death. You deserve all the credit for that not happening.”





“Thank you. We may have simply been lucky. Either way, I am glad we have had no other suicides. I have not had my cell on since Monday morning. Have we had any copycats since J. J. died?”





“None. Surprisingly, there have been few calls. I hope the trend continues.”





“You and me both, Ms. Lee. You and me both. Well,” Wesley stood to leave, “I won't take up any more of your time...”





“It's all fake, you know,” said Kim Lee.





“Fake?” asked Wesley.





“Religion. Spirituality. God.”





“Oh.” Wesley laughed. He really did not want to have this conversation with this woman today. “I don't think you can use the word fake. Since a relationship with God requires faith - something that goes beyond reason or proof - it becomes difficult to either require reason or proof.”





“Ah. A slippery preacher.” Kim Lee leaned back in her desk chair and clasped her hands in her lap. “Noah? Jericho? Methuselah?”





Wesley laughed again. “My relationship with God does not require me to believe in the historicity of those stories. It is predicated on the evidence - not proof - of God's presence in the world and in my life.”





“What kind of evidence? I see war, hatred, bigotry, poverty. This is what I see.”





“I see those too. But those are man-made. I see the vastness of the oceans and the heavens. I see the universe in a raindrop, a flower petal, and a butterfly’s wing. I feel God's love in my daughter's embrace, rubbing a puppy's belly, and in the purring of a kitten. I see an unlimited capacity for love and charity; imagination which leads to creation, and grace that leads to peace.”





“I see those things. I appreciate all those things.” She shrugged. “And I do so without believing in God.”





Wesley paused, unsure as to how far - or how deep - he was willing to go with the conversation. He decided to swing for the fences. “Just because you don't believe in God doesn't mean that God doesn't believe in you. Look what you do. Look at the time and compassion you put into your work when you could be making more money elsewhere. I see the hand of God touching others through you. But you want real? I'll give you real.” Wesley braced himself against the back of the visitor’s chair. “I know a man who was a drunk. A street preacher witnessed and prayed and cursed at this man every day until he stopped drinking and turned his life around. It was very real for the wife and children he used to beat regularly. Yesterday I cried with a grieving mother whose only solace was in the belief that her dead baby boy was with Jesus in heaven. And after my wife died? There was one man - a man of God - who told me every day that God loved me. Once I remembered that God loved me - flaws and all - did I start to recover from my grief. That's real. So, let me ask you a question. Two weeks from now, if I prevent a suicide by telling a teenager that God loves them will you go behind me and to tell them I lied? That God is a delusion? That God is fake? Because if that belief keeps a kid alive, then, well, it's real enough for me.” Wesley smiled and closed the door behind him as he left.





Kim Lee sat motionless then said, “Amen preacher, amen.”