Purity

To be pure in heart. Oh my. If we want to struggle, let us think about that for a day get ready for a task. Does anyone think it is possible? The Galilean did, for he told us:

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.” Matthew 5:8 (NIV)

What in the wide world did he mean?

We enjoy two far distant extremes in this area today. That’s one reason we hear so little about the Sermon on the Mount except from the old mainstream churches. When the topic is mentioned, we find one extreme version claims that one must be totally pure within our thinking and actions, both internally and externally. Not surprisingly, this achievement is reserved for the one person espousing the view. Like those custom-made criteria lists that tell us what city is best in which to live, the supporters of this view maintain their own criteria that, you guessed it, prove them pure of heart and ready to see their god.

On the other extreme, there are supporters who teach that if a person supports one, and only one, of the principles the viewer holds dear, that person is not only pure of heart but appointed by the appropriate god to lead us through the wilderness of life. Politicians win elections by claiming such views.

Where does that leave the vast majority who would invoke the act of seeking purity? It is difficult to believe, simultaneously, that history has produced for us only one perfect person, but that we all must be perfect in order to see our god.

The Galilean didn’t help much. He didn’t say, “Blessed are those who strive to be pure in heart.” Nor did the say “Blessed are those who seek to be pure in heart.” No, there was no “give it your best shot” exemption in what he said.

Even President Jimmy Carter, whom most would regard as pure in heart, admitted to improper thoughts on occasion. One doesn’t have to be a muscular pool boy or naughty movie star to solicit a wayward thought, or action. Even a film concerning Mister Rogers, a model hard to surpass in this purity of heart discussion, had his wife’s character say, “He has a temper.”

How does a person cope with such a standard? Perhaps we can adopt the stance that a cleansed and purified heart is one that operates without guile, or untoward purpose. One who is pure of heart may make mistakes, or fall short of the glory, if the effort is made with righteous intent.

That still leaves out a lot of people, many in high places. But the very act of valuing purity may lead us away from the many dark caverns of impurity. As the poet Alfred Lord Tennyson once wrote, “I must lose myself in action lest I wither in despair.”

Yes, that amounts to nothing more than simple striving, but it’s better than following the impure of heart off a cliff.

Care

Sundown in zion

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

            Nelson returned to find Sheriff Love on the phone. Ushered into the Sheriff’s office by a tearful Miss Matheson, he listened as the Sheriff finished his conversation.

            “It may make me look weak all right, but two bodies in my county in two months gets the Bureau involve as far as I’m concerned.” He paused and listened. “Okay,” he said, “you can hide below the breastworks for the time being. Why don’t I send you the photographs of the signs painted on the body and you tell me if they belong to any gang you know.” He winked at Nelson. “You’ve got a database and I don’t.” He paused again. “Semper fijealous,” he said as he disconnected the call. He punched another button and looked at Nelson. “Wait one,” he said. “It’s Roger Cassidy, my chief deputy.

            The Sheriff placed the phone next to his ear, and waited. “Hopalong,” he said. “I’d like for you to send the photos of the signs that were painted on Bonnie Sue to Special Agent Benson over to the Bureau office in Little Rock. Yeah …,” he consulted a rolodex on his desk and read an email address. “Tell him I said if he didn’t get back ASAP, I will leak a story that the FBI is holding up this latest investigation.” He smiled and said, “No, you tell him just like I said it.” He nodded and clicked off the phone. Facing Nelson, he said, “Hardball.”

            “You’re not buying this gangbanger garbage again, are you?” he asked.

            “Not for a second,” the Sheriff said, “but it lets the feds do something useful for us without showing up in the county. They don’t want to show up over here right now for some reason or other.” He stopped, took deep breath, and lowered his chin. “And how was the mother?”

            Nelson recounted his visit to the Anderson home, omitting the part about Irena Dillahunty. He did include the fact that Dale Underhill had been on the scene when arrived.

            “How the hell did Holy Dale know about?”

            “Seems like,” Nelson said, “news travels fast in the north of your county. Before the Sheriff responded, the phone rang.

            “Love,” the Sheriff said, answering the call. He paused, listened, and directed a grimace toward Nelson. He placed his hand over the mouthpiece. “Rick Duffey, ace reporter.” Returning to the call he said, “Editor Duffey, how nice to hear your voice. He grimaced again at Nelson, who had begun to laugh. “Well why don’t you just bring your inquisitive ass on over and we’ll talk. An old friend of yours is here.” He paused, then said, “Himself. Tell Miss What’s Her Name out front that I said the press is always more than welcome at the Armistead County Sheriff’s office.” He listened. “Bite your tongue lad, I could arrest you for disrespecting an officer of the law.” He put the phone in its cradle and turned to Nelson.

            “This is crap,” he said. “Know what we’re gonna do?”

            Ten minutes later, the door to the sheriff’s office opened and Rick Duffey entered cautiously. He looked from Sheriff Love to Nelson, determined that there were no others in the room and said, “Gents.”

            “My favorite wretch,” Sheriff Love said, and motioned for Duffey to sit.

            “Inky wretch. Full names, if you please,” Duffey said as he took a seat. He reached in his pants pocket and retrieved a battered note pad and yellow pencil.

            “Put that goddammed thing up,” Sheriff Love said.

            Duffey pretended to write, and said, speaking to the pad, “First Amendment rights crashed to the ground like a felled tree today in Armistead County, Arkansas.”

            “Off the record, or off the team,” Sheriff Love said.

            “As he threw the ‘Freedom of Information Act’ through an open window, Sheriff Love commented …,”

            “I’ll kick your ass and call it information,” the sheriff said. “In or out?”

            “Well hell,” Duffey said, replacing his pen, “you knew I would be in, or you wouldn’t have let me come here. You aren’t going to get me beat up or arrested, are you?”

            “Not both, anyway,” the sheriff said. “At least not both at the same time.” His eyes danced as he smiled. “Now here’s your part.”

            Later, the three left the sheriff’s office and headed in different directions. Duffey drove to the office of the Armistead Announcer. Sheriff Love drove home. Nelson drove to Barker’s store and parked at the far end of the complex. The late-afternoon rush was in full force and most available parking spaces were filled. Exiting his truck, he looked both ways, then walked to the entrance.

            Inside, both Barkers were busy waiting on customers. Elvis nodded and motioned toward the “collusion corner.” Nelson returned the nod, retrieved a soda from the bank of refrigerators, and walked to the small collection of tables near the rear of the store. The area was used primarily by the morning crowd and Nelson was now its only inhabitant. He took a note pad from his shirt pocket, along with the stub of a pencil, and began making notes as he drank. Time passed. Outside, the sun diminished in strength. Inside, the crowd of late afternoon trade thinned. As it did, Nelson laid his pencil aside and stared ahead.

            After the last customer left, Elvis joined Nelson. “This better be good. I told my wife you had a tip on the fifth race at Oakland tomorrow. She already has the women’s-wear catalogs out for review. Rick Duffey called and said you and Sheriff “Happy-Face” had an adventure in the works. How could a poor colored boy trying to make a living in a hardscrabble store in a county that used to sell slaves possibly be interested in that?

            “Is this place really known as ‘Gossip Central’ or do you just brag too much?” Nelson asked. Elvis straightened, glanced to make sure his wife wasn’t listening, and leaned forward.

            As he exited the store, Nelson’s cell phone rang. He answered and listened. “Good,” he said, “that’s what we figured of course, but it’s nice to have the feds confirm it.” He listened again. “No, I only told him enough to get the rumors started. You, the feds, and I are the only ones who know. Deputy Cassidy may conclude something is afoot. Is he dependable? Good.”

            Thirty minutes later, Nelson left Barkers. He took his time returning to Little Rock. Reaching the city, he ignored the exit leading to his house and took the inter-urban freeway West. The tall buildings of Downtown slid by to his right, but he took no notice, nor did he respond to the other vehicles speeding past him, apparently aggravated at his pace. He was still thinking.

            Before long, he had parked in the parking deck where he had encountered the two Soul Warriors. He took the elevator, exited and walked to the hospital entrance. He checked with the information desk, ascertained that Clifton had not been moved, and walked toward the elevators. He was still moving with a deliberate pace, as if some effort of multi-tasking had slowed his entire being. He reached the door to Clifton’s room and stopped. The door was nearly shut and a person could hear voices from within. He pushed the door open slowly, as if ready to back away if necessary. It wasn’t.

            Nurse Christina Lopez sat in a chair beside Clifton’s bed. She, wasn’t, however, wearing her uniform. She wore a soft pink blouse, a pleated skirt, and dress shoes. The result was pleasing. Clifton was almost sitting up, his face much improved. Swelling had diminished and the angry red patches of before had settled into mottled bruises. Both looked at Nelson and immediately lowered their eyes. Christina blushed faintly. They were holding hands.

            Nelson stared at the two and said nothing. It was his turn to blush. “Excuse me,” he said.

            “Come on in Gideon,” Clifton said. “We were just talking about you. Your ears burning?”

            “Don’t think so,” Nelson said.

            “Tell me first though,” Clifton said, “don’t I look a little better than last time?”

            “Much better,” Nelson said. He looked closer at Clifton’s face, and Christina removed her hand, folding it into the other in her lap. “I hope you were saying nice things about me,” he said.

            “Always,” Christina said. “You’re the only one who ever comes to see him. Clifton shot a quick glance at her. “Except,” she said, “for me.”

            Silence in the room became uncomfortable before Clifton broke it. “Guess what?” he said. “They’re going to let me out on parole.”

            “Parole?” Nelson was confused.

            “Parole,” Clifton said. “I just have to have adult supervision … home health care they call it. … they want me out of here but I have to have somewhere to go where I get me some supervision.”

            Nelson started to speak, but Christina broke in. “He’s coming to my house,” she said. “It took threats to uncover every skeleton I’ve seen buried since I came here, but I’m caring for him until he’s able to carry out the necessary functions for a normal life.”

            “I see,” Nelson said. He paused, then spoke, slowly as if choosing each word with caution. “I could have taken him in if there were no alternatives.”

            “No bother,” Christina said. “I have room, and he minds me better than he does anyone. And hell, I’m a nurse.”

            Clifton smiled, showing a gap where the Soul Warriors had knocked a tooth loose. “She’s teachin’ me some Spanish,” he said. “She says she’s La Jefa. Know what that means?”

            Nelson smiled. “Could it be the feminine version of El Jefe?”

            Clifton looked at Christina. She nodded. He turned to Nelson and said, “I reckon so. Anyway, she’s ‘The Boss,’ so I just best do what I’m told.”

            Nelson started to speak, but stopped. Three sets of eyes snapped to the television monitor extended from the wall opposite Clifton’s bed. A young announcer had just begun the local evening news with the lead, “Good evening and welcome to Channel Seven News. I’m Tom Allison. Lots of local news ahead. Erin Lawson leads off tonight’s segment with a report from an unnamed source who suggests that new leads may shed light on yesterday’s tragic murder of a high school student from Connorville.”

An attractive young woman’s face filled the screen. She stood before the entrance to the Connorville Police Station. “Thanks, Tom,” she said. “This murder, if you remember, follows the discovery of another young girl’s body near the same city a few weeks ago. Law enforcement officials also wonder, according to our source, if the brutal beating of an Armistead County man a week ago may tie into the murders. We are here with Police Chief Rowland Banks of Connorville.”

            The camera turned and the sharp face of Chief Banks filled the screen. The off-screen voice of the announcer said, “Welcome Chief Banks and thank you for your time.”

            He nodded weakly and said, “Right.”

            The voice continued, “Chief, our sources relate that the murder, perhaps the other violence as well, may have resulted from a local group from Connorville joining forces with a drug gang, or gangs, in Little Rock. Can you add any insight or details?”

            The Chief exhibited a flash of shock, then shook his head violently. “I can assure you that this news did not originate with anyone from my department. We are actively assisting the Armistead County Sheriff’s Department, which has jurisdiction over this case since the body was found outside our city.”

            The voice broke in, “But the victim was a resident of your city, right?”

            “That’s why we are assisting so fully with all our resources and will continue to do so.”

            “But you have no information to support or refute our source.”

            “Absolutely not. But I will tell you that the fine people of our city do not form partnerships with drug gangs from other cities.” He scowled and said, “I can assure you of that. I suggest you contact the Sheriff’s department for any further details.”

            He turned away and the reporter’s young face filled the screen. “The Armistead County Sheriff’s Department responded to our request for confirmation by saying that the investigation was in, as they termed it, a critical phase and the department would be issuing a report as soon as it could.” She glanced at a notebook in her free hand. “When pressed as to when his department might issue the report, Sheriff Love simply said, ‘Soon, very soon,’ and declined further comment.”

            The reporter signed off, but Nelson, Clifton, and Christina continued to stare at the screen, transfixed. 

The Quality Not Strained

What did the Galilean mean when he mentioned mercy? He thought highly of it, for he did say: “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” (Matthew 5:7, NIV)

We don’t dwell on it much these days. Many feel it is more blessed to be rich than merciful, better to win than show mercy, and better to exact revenge than forgiveness. But it is right there in one of the most prominent places in all of Christianity, the Sermon on the Mount. A trait can’t get a better endorsement than to star in The Beatitudes.

The Galilean thought highly of the trait of mercy. Why don’t so many of us?

It was a cruel and violent age during which this most famous sermon took place. Wars, conquests, crucifixions, gladiatorial spectacles, and slavery occurred without a thought of their inherent cruelty. A look at the morning news might indicate that we are headed more toward, as a society, this state than away from it. That’s why it might be important to look closely at this state of mercy.

Oddly, to show mercy, one needs to be in a position to be unmerciful. It is dissimilar to, say, the quality of love, in which the more we give, the more there is to give. Mercy means being patient with people's weaknesses, differences, shortcomings and quirks.

It is dissimilar to sacrifice, in which one might suffer in order to provide solace to another, for example when a homeless man gives his coat to another on a frigid night. Mercy means doing good to those who hurt, offend, or torment you.

 It is dissimilar to a mandate, in which one provides mercy as an exaction, say by paying taxes. Mercy means personally helping someone you know who is hurting, even though they bear no resemblance to you physically, spiritually, nationally, or socially.

It is dissimilar to reparations or judgements. Mercy means reaching out to those whom we don’t love, or those who are the most difficult to love.

It requires a direct manifestation. One doesn’t show mercy, for example, by tossing coins in a holiday pot. That shows kindness and goodness maybe, but not mercy. It requires a face-to-face transaction for which, the Galilean asserts, one will receive it back in the future.

Is it any wonder that we see it in practice so seldom, this trait of mercy? Wouldn’t it be nice to see it roll into America from the highest halls and offices? Maybe, just maybe, justice would roll along with it. That might make the Galilean happy.

"The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes." Shakespeare: The Merchant of Venice Act IV Scene I

Q

Encounters

Sundown in zion

CHAPTER FORTY-three

            Nelson left the diner and walked to the Sheriff’s Office. When Mrs. Matheson welcomed him with a questioning look, he said, “Waiting for the sheriff to call me. It’s chilly outside.”

            She smiled and said, “Sit down. Take a load off,” and motioned him toward a bench reserved for those waiting for an appointment. She continued to watch him after he sat. “Waiting for something important?”

            “Afraid so,” Nelson said.

            “Please don’t let it be another tragedy,” she said. “We’ve had way too many lately.” She signed a paper and moved it to a stack. She looked at Nelson. “What’s happening to our little county?”

            “Evil things,” Nelson said. “They have a tendency to pop up anywhere.”

            “I was hoping any more of them would wait until the sheriff retired.”

            “I’ve heard he was going to” Nelson said. “From what I know about him, he deserves a rest.”

            “Not much chance of that,” Mrs. Matheson said. When it appeared that Nelson didn’t understand, she said, “His wife.”

            “His wife?”

            “Don’t you know?”

            Nelson shook his head. “I know nothing about her except that he kids you about her from time to time.”

            “Oh dear,” she said. “It’s a pitiful story.” When Nelson didn’t respond, she continued. “She’s younger than he is by six years. He always calls her his ‘trophy wife’ and he worships her beyond belief.”

            “She’s lucky,” Nelson said.

            “Not so lucky,” Mrs. Matheson said. “She’s well into early onset Alzheimer’s.”

            Nelson drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “I had no idea,” he said. “The sheriff has never mentioned it.”

            “He wouldn’t,” she said. She laid her pen on her desk. “He wouldn’t.”

            “How does he take care of her and do his job as well?”

            “A young woman who lives in town stays with her when he’s away,” she said. “Consuelo. She’s excellent with her. She takes good care of her and we all pretend that Louisa, that’s her name, is okay, but she’s not. Far from it.”

            Nelson stared at the floor and Mrs. Matheson continued. “It would break your heart,” she said. Then she looked hard at Nelson. “Do you go to church?”

            “No.”

            “Neither did Sheriff Love before he married Louisa. He hasn’t missed a Sunday since, at least not when he is in town.” She stopped and drew a breath. “Louisa was the best seamstress around,” she said. “She swept all the ribbons for sewing at our little county fair each year and even lots of them at the state fair in Little Rock.”

            “Can she still sew?” Nelson asked.

            “Hardly, and it’s worse than that. She always sewed the most beautiful outfits you can imagine for herself. Needless to say, she was the best-dressed lady at the First Methodist Church. She made smart stylish outfits that matched perfectly.” She stopped, drew a tissue from a desk drawer, and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh heck,” she said. “I’m boring you.”

            “Far from it,” Nelson said. “Please go on.”

            “Once,” Mrs. Matheson said, “Louisa asked the Minister if she was guilty of the sin of vanity by wanting to dress so well for church.”

            “And what did he say?”

            “It was a she,” Mrs. Matheson said, “and she said ‘far from it. Having such a well-adorned lady in the audience was like having one of God’s beautiful orchids there, and it inspired everyone in the church to greater glory.’ That’s why it breaks our hearts so.”

            “What does?”

            “To see her now,” Mrs. Matheson said. She dabbed her eyes again. “He still brings her every Sunday, only he has to dress her. Doesn’t allow another person to help. God knows we’ve all offered to, but he has to do it himself.” She began to cry.

            Nelson waited.

            “See,” Mrs. Matheson said, “she still has all those beautiful clothes she sewed, but she doesn’t know it. She doesn’t know anything.”

            “But he still brings her to church,” Nelson said.

            “Every Sunday. After he gets her ready and dresses her.”

            Nelson waited, maybe knowing what was coming next.

            “The sheriff has many fine qualities,” Mrs. Matheson said “but good taste in dressing his wife is not one of them. And besides … he’s colorblind.”

            Nelson nodded and tried to respond, but didn’t.

            “So she sits there beside him every Sunday morning dressed in the most pitiful arrangement of mismatched clothes you can imagine, staring straight ahead with that little smile of hers. But she doesn’t see anything.” She stopped and sniffed once more. “Louisa would die of shame if she could only recognize herself. Instead, she just smiles and holds his hand. She remembers that much.”

            The most merciful event of Nelson’s morning occurred when his cell phone rang. He punched, drew it to his ear and listened. After a moment, he said, “Yes, I know where it is.” He listened. “I understand,” he said. “I’m on my way.” He paused, listened, and shook his head. “I’ll tell her.” He punched the phone and returned it to his pocket. He looked at Mrs. Matheson and said, “Sheriff said he may not be back until late.” She nodded in agreement as he turned and hurried out.

            Twenty minutes later, he reached the Anderson house. He parked alongside a large black SUV in the driveway, emerged slowly from his truck, and went to the door. Before he could knock, it opened and a tearful Cappy Anderson stood before him. She held a tissue to her face and simply nodded, then motioned for him to enter. Easing by her, he turned to see Dale Underhill seated on a couch, a drinking glass in his hand. Each man stared at the other for ten seconds before Underhill spoke. “Deputy Nelson. Would that we were meeting on a more blessed occasion.”

            Nelson only responded with a nod. Underhill continued, “News travels fast in Connorville, particularly bad news.”

            Nelson looked at Cappy Anderson. “So you know?”

            She nodded.

            “We don’t know any details yet,” Nelson said. “Sheriff Love wants you to know we are working on it and will keep you informed.”

            She nodded and took a breath. With a noticeable effort, she lowered her eyes to Nelson’s and spoke. “Why?”

            Nelson shook his head. “Was she supposed to be in school?”

            Underhill interrupted. “She was,” he said, adding, “maybe I can help.”

            Nelson turned to listen as Underhill stood. “She came to me during noon-hour,” Underhill said, “at the church. She was deeply troubled about something and asked me to help her.”

            Nelson cocked his head slightly. “Help her what?”

            “She didn’t say at first,” Underhill said. “She just had a good cry and asked me to pray for her.”

            Nelson waited. “That’s all,” Underhill said. “I had Pastor Glover take her back to school. He bought her something to eat and got her back before they even missed her.”

            “But she wasn’t on the school bus yesterday afternoon,” Cappy said.

            “You mean she didn’t come home?”

            “It wasn’t the first time. She would always go to her father’s house.”

            “You called to check?”

            Cappy looked at Underhill, then back at Nelson. She shook her head. “I don’t call him unless it’s absolutely necessary,” she said. “I just assumed …,” She broke into convulsive sobs.

            Nelson looked at Underhill. “Did she indicate to you that she might go the dad’s house?”

            Underhill thought. “Matter of fact,” he said, “she did mention it. Something about seeing if he would pay for swimming lessons.”

            Nelson cocked his head. “Swimming lessons?”

            “She seemed quite adamant about it. Someone had promised to teach her to swim, but that was never going to happen now and she wanted to see if her dad would pay for private lessons.”

            Cappy Anderson broke into the conversation. “She could have asked me, but she didn’t. I could have signed her up for lessons at the club.” She broke into sobs again.

            Nelson looked at Underhill. “I’ll need to talk to your assistant again,” he said.

            “Most certainly. I’ll let him know.” He smiled. “You can expect cooperation.”

            As Nelson started to speak, the front door of the Anderson home flew open and a leggy figure swarmed through the entry-way and into the living room. It was a woman in her late 30s, with a strikingly beautiful and tanned figure. She wore a pearl-colored blouse and a short skirt designed to show her figure to its best advantage. Long, straight, blond hair cascaded over her shoulders and a gold necklace swung from side to side with her rapid movements. Cappy Anderson was a beautiful woman, but the newcomer put her to shame.

            She ignored Nelson and Underhill and rushed to embrace Cappy. They stood entwined for a moment, then the newcomer spoke. “Baby, baby,” she said. “I came as soon as I heard.” She leaned her head back from the embrace and ran a hand across Cappy’s brow, brushing aside hair wet from tears. “Are you okay?”

            Cappy nodded and pulled the woman closer. Looking across a shoulder, she said to Nelson, “This is Irena Dillahunty, my friend,” she said. Nelson nodded.

            The woman released Cappy and turned, taking her time, to face the other two. She nodded at Underhill. “Dale,” she said. He smiled. Shifting to face Nelson, she eyed him from hairline to shoes, then asked, “Who are you?”

            “Special Deputy Gideon Nelson, ma’am, of the Armistead County Sheriff’s department.”

            She looked him over again. “You don’t look so special to me,” she said. “Where is your uniform?”

            “I’m on assignment for Sheriff Love,” he said.

            “That fat fool,” she said. “Is he still around?”

            Nelson ignored her and turned to Cappy Anderson. “I’ll come back when you’ve had a chance to rest from the shock,” he said. “Could you perhaps give me the phone number of Bonnie Sue’s father?”

            Cappy nodded, reached for a note pad on a desk next to her, and began to write.

            “What is the Sheriff and you goons doing about this?” Irena Dillahunty asked.

            Nelson ignored her again. Before she could speak, Dave Underhill interrupted. “Mr. Nelson is one of the good ones,” he said. “He’s been investigating the murder of that poor colored girl.”

            “I rely on you for spiritual guidance, David,” Irena said, “not for social guidance.” She turned to Nelson again. “I asked you what you are doing about my friend’s daughter,” she said. “I could care less about some dead gang-banger.”

            Nelson continued to ignore her. The silence became uncomfortable. “I think you met Irena’s husband,” he said to Nelson. “He’s Don Underhill of ‘Don’s Almost Free Things.’ He and Irena are two of our most faithful members.”

            Nelson took the phone number from Cappy. She dabbed her eyes. “And I’m not,” she said. “I try to be, but I’m not.”

            Another uncomfortable silence followed. Nelson broke it. “I sure we all do our best,” he said to Cappy. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to deal with your loss.”

            Cappy nodded. Nelson turned in a clockwise manner so he didn’t have to face the other two. He walked in measured steps to the front door. As he reached it, he heard Irena Dillahunty speak in a stage whisper. “I don’t know how much that son-of-a-bitch earns working for ‘Old Lardass,’ but he won’t have a job after Don hears how he insulted me. You saw him.”

            Nelson let himself out the front door and was soon leaving the Anderson home. As he turned onto the main highway, he scratched the back of his neck.

Hunger and Thirst

What is it today that we hunger and thirst for in our lives? To the Galilean on that Judean mount it was righteousness.

Not power.

Not riches.

Not fame.

Not adulation.

Righteousness: Here is exactly what he had to say:

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.” (Matthew 5:6 NIV)

Righteousness: What does it mean? In everyday life, the definition is:

1.     Characterized by uprightness or morality,

2.     Morally right or justifiable, or

3.     Acting in an upright, moral way; virtuous.

This may sound like a check-off list. Other early writers would link it to salvation, even claiming that it came through faith alone. We are left to ponder what exactly the Galilean meant by it.

It’s interesting that he didn’t simply say “seek righteousness.” He said, “Hunger and thirst for it.” That adds another dimension, doesn’t it? Those fail the test, it would seem, who simply display the Bible for all to see without sacrificing one “jot or tittle” of earthly fame or fortune. To hunger or thirst removes all hypocrisy and self-aggrandizement.

I like to think the Galilean was referring to what we yearn to feast upon. He refers, in other places, to what we feed ourselves and what it produces. I like to think that to “hunger and thirst” for something, righteousness included, forms our daily habits and controls our very demeanor.

Such hungering doesn’t bring much in today’s market. To understand this, we might latch onto the words of a more modern writer, John Steinbeck. He said this of a character, based no doubt on his fried Ed Rickles:

“The things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding, and feeling are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest are the traits of success.”

Equally unnerving in modern American society is the lack of positive role-models who would teach us to hunger and thirst for righteousness. They exist but are outmaneuvered and out-shouted by the anti-righteous cadres. In fact, some seem to worship evil because it sounds bold and trend setting. This bodes poorly for our youth. We read this dire warning from another writer of the last century:

“How shall the love of God be understood by those who have been nurtured in sight only of the greed of man?” - Quoted from an unnamed source in “How the Other Half Lives” by Jacob Riis.

Déjà Vu

Sundown in zion

Chapter forty-two

            “Tell you what,” Sheriff Love said. “I’ve a terrible bad taste in my mouth. Let’s you and I stroll over to the Cotton Bowl and have a fresh cup of coffee and a sandwich.”
            “Couldn’t have thought of a better idea myself,” Nelson said.

            The cool morning had turned into a humid afternoon as the men walked slowly along the two blocks to the diner. Sheriff Love pointed to the improvements around the square where old buildings had received new life with tasteful renovations and a new generation of businesses in each. “We had a young lady from the state come over and give us advice on how to restore these tired old structures,” giving a short history of each building. “They were all built by the good old boys of the day,” he said. “Know what made them different from the shakers and movers running things today?”

            “They didn’t have cell phones?”

 “Didn’t need them,” the sheriff said. “Anybody that was of any use to them was within shouting distance.”

            “So what then,” Nelson said. “Were they more honest?”

            “Oh hell no,” the sheriff said. “You’d never find a more greedy and squirmy bunch.” He stopped to pick an empty coffee cup from the sidewalk. He pitched it into a receptacle along the way and continued. “No,” he said, “the difference was that after they had taken care of themselves, and their buddies, they did, oftentimes, take care of the citizens.” He stopped, thought, and then said, “At least the white ones.”

            “And now?” Nelson said.

            “A bunch of greedy and morally-bankrupted souls who wouldn’t help a crippled widow across the street. This new bunch is mean. I’m saying mean-spirited and vicious. They don’t want to help anyone, white or black. In a way, you might say, they want to treat everyone the way their ancestors just treated black folks.”

            “You always manage to cheer me up, Sheriff,” Nelson said.

            “Just don’t trust anyone around here,” the sheriff said. “Even me.” He laughed, opened the door to the diner, and ushered Nelson inside.

           The diner was empty as its two waitresses sat drinking coffee and resting from the noon crowd. One motioned the two arrivals to sit anywhere, rose, picked up two menus and ambled to where they had chosen to sit. “Hey Hon,” she said to Sheriff Love, “who’s the cutie you brought with you?”

            “A dangerous sex offender I’m feeding before I transport him to death row, His specialty is strangling his victims just when they start yelling ‘Oh god, oh god.’ He calls it “Coming through the die.’ Want to take him back in the storeroom with you?”

            “Maybe tomorrow,” she said. “My feet hurt too bad today. Y’all want something to drink?” We don’t serve beer to public officials or sex offenders.”

            “Some fresh coffee and a glass of water would suit me fine,” the Sheriff said. He opened the menu and began to study it.

            Nelson nodded to the waitress for the same. She started to turn, but stopped. “Tell me something,” she said to Sheriff Love.

 “I’m still married and not allowed to without a permission-slip,” he said. “And you know how many times she’s refused to grant me one so far, even for you.”

            She ignored the comment. “Why do you always study that menu. You know you’re gonna order the same damn thing you always do.”

         “I think today I’ll have the cheese sandwich, instead,” he said. He turned to Nelson.

“They make the best cheese sandwiches on the block.” He handed his menu to the waitress.  She rolled her eyes. “Bite me,” she said. “I’m not even gonna bring you a menu next time.” She looked at Nelson. “You need some time, Hon?”

            “Cheese sandwich sounds fine to me as well,” he said.

            “Hummf,” she said before taking the menus and wandering away.

            Nelson winked at the Sheriff. “An admirer?”

            “Her old man runs a feed store,” the sheriff said. “They say he has the biggest schlong in Armistead County. She wouldn’t hold hands with another man for ten thousand dollars, but waitresses that can put on the act make lots in tips.”

            “So, you found out nothing this morning?” Nelson asked.

            “Didn’t expect to. But I sure pissed some assholes off. Wasn’t that the plan?”

            “The plan exactly,” Nelson said. “Did you talk to the police chief in Connorville?”

            “His ass is working buttonholes trying to figure out what I’m up to.”

            Nelson laughed. He leaned forward and spoke with a low voice, gesturing in great motions with his arms. “And if this place is the communication center I’ve always heard it is, the news will be out that you and I were here on some real hush, hush business today. Would I be correct in assuming that’s why you brought me here?”

         “You’re pretty smart for a sailor,” he sheriff said. He pointed his hand in the direction of

Connorville and then swung to point it to the southwest. Continuing the act, he leaned toward Nelson. “You did hear the one about the one bosun’s mate that was so dumb the other bosun’s mates began to notice, didn’t you?”

         Nelson laughed. “I won’t make any ‘jarhead’ jokes,” he said. “They saved my bacon too many times.”

        “That’s our motto,” the sheriff said. “Semper Fidelimous.” As the waitress approached, he leaned back and said, “And if that don’t work, we’ll switch to Plan B.”

            Nelson nodded as the waitress set their food and drinks on the table. “Ya’ll look like you’re plottin’ some sure-fire destruction,” she said.

            “Just trying to figure out how to destroy your virginity,” Sheriff Love said.

 “Decades late and many dollars short for that,” she said. “Ya’ll figured out who killed that colored girl yet?”

            “Why? Do you know anything about it?”

           “Talk is some gangbangers in Little Rock did it,” she said. “At least that’s the talk we hear around here.”

          “Make a note of that, Gideon,” the sheriff said. “This is a lead that might put a new light on Plan B.”

            “Kiss my big white ass,” the waitress said. She smiled and walked away.

            The men had just started their meals when the sheriff’s cell phone rang. “Dammit to god almighty hell,” he said. “There must be a device in that thing that lets people know I just took a bite of food. He placed the phone to his ear. “Love,” he said. He listened and Nelson could see his face darken. “Where?” he said into the phone. He listened again, and then said, “Do we know who she is?” When he heard the response, he lowered the phone, “Sweet fucking Jesus on a rosewood cross,” he said to no one in particular. He composed himself and spoke into the phone. “I’m on my way,” he said. Turning to Nelson he spoke so no one else could hear. “We’ve got another dead girl.”

            “Who?”

            “One of those you interviewed: the fat one.”

            “Bonnie Sue? The Anderson girl.?”

            “That’s the one.”

            Nelson had started to take a bite of his sandwich, but slowly lowered it to his plate. “Jesus,” he said softly. “How?”

            “Shot. That’s all I know now.” The sheriff folded the remains of his sandwich into a paper napkin and rose. “I’ve got to go to the crime scene. When I make the ID for sure, I’ll call you. Would you be willing to break the news to her mother then, since you’ve met her?”  “I will,” Nelson said, staring into space.

            “Put all this on my bill,” the sheriff said to the waitress. He waved his hand across the table. The usual tip.” Gathering his sandwich, he left Nelson alone.

            “You gonna finish yours?” the waitress stood looking at Nelson as if she held a hope that she might learn what just happened.

            “Sure,” Nelson said. He sipped his coffee and stared at the remains of the sandwich.

“Sure,” he said. “I guess so.” He didn’t move.

            The waitress stood watching. “Something big come up?”    “The sheriff had to leave,” Nelson said.

            “Tell me something I don’t know,” she said, smiling.

            “Sheriff business,” Nelson said.

            “You’re a real fountain of info,” she said while removing the remains of the sheriff’s meal.

            Nelson continued to eat slowly. He fell so deeply into thought that he didn’t respond when the diner’s door opened and a group of young men filed into the room.

It was the Soul Warriors.

They marched in as if under command and took seats surrounding Nelson. Bully Bridges took the seat that the Sheriff had vacated. As he sat, Nelson looked up from his sandwich, then he took another bite and chewed slowly. Neither man spoke.

Nelson swallowed and held the last bite of his meal in his hand. His eyes narrowed and met those of Bridges, who stared directly back at Nelson. Two pairs of eyes locked in silence, announcing a war of wills. Not a sound in the room invaded the contest. Both men just stared in the silence.

As the staring continued, the left eye of Bridges twitched slightly. Those of Nelson—eyes that had neither closed nor moved as the frigid waters of the Pacific surf off Coronado Island had pounded him all night in his fiercest test ever—took on a calm look, almost a restful one.

A chair squeaked as one of the Soul Warriors moved slightly.

Seconds passed. Another of the men stirred and as he did, Bridges blinked. Nelson continued to stare, and an almost imperceptible smile crossed his face. Bridges looked down. Nelson held his stare and moved the last bite of sandwich to his mouth. Still staring, as if into what remained of the soul of Bully Bridges, Nelson chewed. “Soon,” Bridges said. “Real soon.” Nelson said nothing.

Bridges slid his chair back and stood. He performed a military-style “right-face” and marched away from the table. He motioned to the others and they filed in behind him. In perfect unison, they marched to the door and exited. Nelson lifted his coffee cup and drank. He lowered in, touched his napkin to his lips, and shoved the leftovers away to be removed.

Sounds of life returned to the diner. The staff, who had disappeared with the entrance of the Soul Warriors, returned and took their places. The waitress serving Nelson walked slowly to the table and began gathering the dishes. She took three steps toward the kitchen, but slowly turned and walked back to face Nelson, who was about to rise.

She looked at him, differently this time. Gone was the flirtatious server who had verbally jousted with Sheriff Love. Gone, in fact, was any mannerism of one long accustomed to maintaining an air of superficial friendliness. The replacement was a look of wonder, a look seeking genuine and important information. Cocking her head slightly to one side, she searched for words before speaking. Then she spoke slowly, and without guile. “Just who the hell are you, Mister?”

Passions

 We don’t celebrate meekness in our culture these days. We celebrate assertiveness, except on occasion in children and always in women. Even in these cases, we don’t seek meekness as much as blind obedience. We prefer our men on the prideful side. Why then, did the Galilean place the following early in the Sermon on the Mount?

 Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

 Was he advocating legions of zombie-like followers, bland and obedient, willing, and malleable? Perhaps, instead, he realized that true meekness more closely resembled the reining in of a wild horse, a situation in which power, true power, was harnessed and passions lay under control, to be guided to some good end. Didn’t the law that he claimed to have come to fulfill already offer a guide? Proverbs 16:32 states "Better a patient person than a warrior, one with self-control than one who takes a city."

 Well there we go. To be meek is not to be weak. Leave assertive bravado to those who would pattern their lives, and leadership, after a professional wrestling star on a television show. Leave obsession with greatness to actors, athletes, and politicians. The Galilean would tell his followers later, in Matthew 11:29. “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” (NIV) If that is not a call to meekness, what is?

Perhaps the Galilean realized that the power of restraining passions in favor of meekness lay in the effect that power might have when released while under control. Hence the lasting power of his own sermon on that lonely hill. Abraham Lincoln knew that. Martin Luther King, Jr. knew that. The late John Lewis knew that. Eleanor Roosevelt and Rosa Parks knew it.,

 Their world struggled, still does, against the believers of pure power. At stake is not only the fate of our country, but likely the fate of the entire planet. The Galilean says that the meek shall inherit the earth. But will that earth be a charred, smoking ruble, or a new Garden of Eden? I think the Galilean left it up to his followers to decide. I think he left the gift of the Sermon on the Mount as a guide, hoping that some leader would, at some distant time, would hold it high while leading the world out of darkness.

                                                

 

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

 

            Nelson spent the rest of the day unpacking clothes and equipment that had remained boxed. The next morning, Charlie rose late and wandered in for coffee as Nelson was getting ready to leave. He was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved black knit shirt, and hiking boots. One item of attire caught Charlie’s attention.

            “That’s one ugly-assed belt buckle,” he said.

            “A present. And I’m going to see the donor’s dad this morning so he will notice I’m wearing it and report the news.”

            “What are those things on it? Fishhooks.”

            “Anchors, asshole. They are anchors.”

            “Oh. So where you headed?”

            “To stir up trouble. Want to help?”

            “My particular area of expertise. What would be my mission?’

            Nelson explained the concept of the “mad minute” and how he and the sheriff’s department intended to initiate it. “I’m hesitant to ask you to get involved,” he said. “But if you want some action, I have an idea.”

            “Action is my trademark,” Charlie said. “Besides, I owe you.”

            “Would your girlfriend be interested?”

            “Like she told you, she knows Abbey’s dad. She’ll be game.”

            “Is she working today?”

            “Waiting for some data files to be sent in,” he said. “We intended to ride our bikes, then shower, and spend the rest of the afternoon working on improving my consistency in wild …”

            “Spare me all the details,” Nelson said. “Here’s what I had in mind.”

            An hour later, Nelson turned onto a graveled road in south Armistead County. Pastures framed the road on either side and the cows stopped their chewing to watch Nelson as he drove by, wondering if he had come to feed them. When he drove by, they lost interest and turned away. Farther on, woods replaced the pastures and the road narrowed. It curved slightly and soon the main highway was out of sight in the truck’s rear view mirror. A half-mile later, the road curved again and a fenced area and large metal gate came into view. Nelson slowed and took in his surroundings.

            He eased slowly until his truck was within ten feet of the gate and stopped. He opened the door and stepped out, once again examining his surroundings. Seeing no one, he walked to the gate. It consisted of two sections joined in the middle by a latch that swiveled to connect the two sections. A heavy metal chain bound the sections together and a lock connected the chain. The lock hung inside the compound, indicating it had been last touched from within. Nelson reached and pulled it to the outside. He examined it and let it drop. A small metal sign on the gate announced that it formed the entrance to “The SW Hunting Club.” A larger sign warned intruders away.

            The ground on either side of the gravel was soft and Nelson walked several feet in both directions, making sure that he was leaving footprints. Returning to his truck, he took a card from its box, and examined it. Then he took a pen and drew a large “X” on the front. Turning the card over, he wrote the name of the road on which he had turned and scribbled, “hunting club?” beneath it. He rubbed the card along the bed of his truck and bent it in the middle. He dropped the card into a footprint on the right side of the gate, stepped on it, and returned to his truck.

            As the reversed the truck’s direction, he made certain that the front tires left tracks just beyond the gravel. He drove away slowly, watching the rearview mirror intently. When he was certain that no one had observed him, he gunned the truck and left the scene. Minutes later, he turned onto the state highway and headed toward Armistead.

            The morning rush had ended at Barker’s by the time Nelson arrived. Only one vehicle was parked there, a late-model Toyota Camry, polished to a high sheen. Nelson parked alongside it and walked into the store. Inside, he turned toward “The Collusion Corner.” A thin and youngish man dressed in a flannel shirt and khakis sat in serious conversation with Elvis. When the man saw Nelson, he rose and rushed across the store and caught Nelson in a tight embrace. When they had parted, the man said, “Gideon Nelson. Mr. Badass.”

            Nelson smiled. “Rick Duffey, Ace Reporter.”

            “Editor Emeritus now,” Duffey said. “Thanks to you.”

            “I hear my investment has paid off handsomely,” Nelson said.

            “One can only hope.” Duffey led Nelson to the table where Elvis sat. “And just when did you intend to stop and see your old partner in crime? I hear you’ve been back for a while.”

            “Stopped in twice,” Nelson said. “Both times you were in Caldron. I understand you now own the paper there as well.”

            “Double the pleasure. Double the debt,” Duffey said. “The folks up there begged me to take it off their hands before some national bunch bought it and quit publishing the news from all the rural churches.”

            “Does the Armistead Announcer still do that?”

            “Hell yes,” Duffey said. “How else would folks know that Mrs. Harry Roberts came to services with her nephew Hatchet Maynard, here on a weekend pass from the state pen in Calico Rock?”

            “Hatchet?”

            “Just a name he picked up in the football team’s shower back in high school.”

            Nelson thought for a moment and then laughed. “Are you trying to tell me he is a strutting man”?

            “Strutted himself right into bed with a fifteen-year old girl or, as they call them around here, a ‘slow starter.’ Now he’ll have to post a sign in his yard, when he gets out, stating that he is a sexual predator. She was Pastor Cody’s youngest daughter and half the men in Armistead County are thinking, ‘Hell that could have been me.’ They keep that type prosecution up and there won’t be a high school football team in state in a few years. These are good times for news hounds. That why you told the proprietor here,” he said nodding at Elvis, who had been quietly listening, “that you needed to see me?”

            Nelson nodded. “You know what I’ve been up to, don’t you?”

            “I hear things.”

            Nelson leaned forward. “I thought you might want to help plant the seed for a future scoop.”

            “I’m listening.”

            Elvis rose and walked toward the soft drink cooler. Nelson leaned back and looked Duffey in the eyes. “Wealth and fame haven’t made you honest, have they?”

            Elvis returned and sat three Diet Cokes on the table. “Hell,” he said. “Old Rick here has gained so much stature that he has been trading diphthongs with old Amanda Courtney.”

            Nelson arched an eyebrow. “She’s back in town?”

            “Back in the state and claiming no kin to her recently incarcerated father who, by all accounts, is pretty much enjoying life in maximum security,” Elvis said.

            Duffey reddened. “She comes into town on bank business,” he said. “She handles some of the advertising and that brings her to the newspaper. She wants to talk about publicity, ads and stuff.”

            “As I heard,” Elvis said, interrupting, “to check on a new insertion.”

            Duffey frowned. Nelson laughed. “I’ve missed you guys,” he said. “Now,” he said, turning to Duffey, “can we move from deep insertions to deep background?”

            “What sort of semi-ethical escapade do you want me to join you in?”

            “Simply reporting the truth,” Nelson said. “For you newspaper types, that’s a noun indicating the existence of honesty, accuracy, and conformity with facts.”

            “Heard of it,” Duffey said. “Doesn’t sell worth a damn.”

            “Will you two white devils cut the crap and get down to business,” Elvis said. “My noon crowd’s gonna come in any minute, and I might miss something.”

            Nelson and Duffey both laughed. “Here’s the deal,” Nelson said, and the conversation became serous.

            Nelson left Barker’s as the noon traffic began to build. He shook hands with Duffey before they drove away in opposite directions. Nelson drove toward Armistead and, arriving there, drove to the courthouse. He had to park in the next block because a group of pickup trucks occupied the spaces in front of the building. He walked to the Sheriff’s office at a slow pace, looking around him with his arms in position for ready action. Reaching the office, he entered and found a group of the Soul Warriors occupying folding chairs that had been moved in to handle the temporary crowd. Their eyes filled with hot anger as he walked by.

            Nelson stopped at Mrs. Matterson’s desk and caught a mischievous smile. He winked and said, “Guess he’ll be tied up for a while?”

            “Actually no,” she said. “He’s interviewing his last … uh,” she glanced toward the seated group, “visitor now.”

            At that moment, the door to the sheriff’s office opened and Bully Bridges emerged, clutching a worn baseball cap with a large cross stenciled on the front. When he saw Nelson, he stiffened for a moment, made eye contact, and then turned his eyes to the other men who rose as one. As he walked past Nelson, he brushed him slightly with a shoulder and, in an almost silent whisper, audible to Nelson only, said, “Soon.”

            Nelson watched the group leave. After the last one exited, he turned and smiled at Mrs. Matterson. He shook his head toward the sheriff’s office and said, “May I go in?”

            “I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you,” she said. “Would you like for me to fetch some spray and fumigate the room first?”

            “We’ve smelled worse,” Nelson said, shaking his head. “At least I’m sure he has.” He turned and walked to the door and knocked softly. A voice from within yelled, “Come on in.”

            Once seated, Nelson related to the sheriff all his activities of the day thus far. Sheriff Love listened intently, nodding from time to time. Once he interrupted. “Do you trust all these fellers?” he asked. “You don’t know this man that lives with you that well, or his girlfriend.”

            “I think I know them well enough,” Nelson said. “I think they can pull off the act as a loving couple that well. And you know the local boys,” he said. “They’ll do anything as long as it has a little deceit and trickery involved.”

            The sheriff nodded, and then raised his head to think. Lowering it and nodding toward the reception area, he abruptly altered course. “You know what those motherfuckers told me?” he said.

            “That they love Jesus?”

            “Pretty much,” the Sheriff said. “They all claimed that they didn’t know nothing about no dead colored girl … although they used a different adjective.”

            “Isn’t that what you expected them to say?”

            “Yeah,” the sheriff said, “but that wasn’t the crazy part.”

            “Oh?”

            “Get this. They claimed they only hung out at that club in the woods to hunt during season and to conduct bible studies at other times. Can you fuckin’ believe it?”

            “Bible studies?”

            “Bible studies. They also claim to be spend time renovating the old cabins the original owners built there.” He stopped, closed his eyes, and said, “Oh yes, and cleaning the place, that being next to godliness, you know.”

            “Well,” Nelson said. “As you folks say down here, ‘I’ll swan.’”

            “Indeed,” the sheriff said. “Now what did you find out at the club while I had them all here?”

            “It was locked,” Nelson said. “I poked around the entrance and made sure they knew that I had been there.”

            “Good,” the sheriff said. “That’ll piss them off. Did you notice anything strange?”

            “Not really,” Nelson said, “but there was this one small thing that seemed odd for a hunting club.”

            “Oh? And what was that?”

            “There were no postings prohibiting hunting. You know … the purple paint and all that.”

            “No shit?”

            “No,” Nelson said, “just one sign with a skull and crossbones stating that trespassers would be shot on sight.”