Apparently George doesn’t know the party is elsewhere.” He hesitated. “Actually, George probably doesn’t know much of anything right now. He’s had more than a few drinks tonight.”
Sam was grateful the men had stopped George before he destroyed the good spirit at the fiesta and made more of a fool of himself in the process.
“Maybe if he has a chance to insult me he’ll calm down and we can get him home. How did he get here?”
“His car’s in the lot.”
“He’s lucky he didn’t kill somebody on the way over. They’re lucky.”
“We won’t let him drive home.”
Sam briefly considered calling the sheriff and having George removed from the premises, but the temptation passed quickly. There were better ways to deal with George, both for his sake and that of the church.
They reached the building and entered through a side door. When it closed behind him, Sam could no longer hear the band or the happy squeals of children. They turned down several corridors, ending up in the large room where most social events were held. Sam saw George in the corner by the door, flanked by the other men Early had mentioned. George, in his forties, was not aging well. He had coarse, bulldog features, a perpetual scowl, and a physique that was more out-of-shape wrestler than boxer.
Everyone but George looked uncomfortable. George looked furious.
Sam wasted no time reaching the others. The other men stepped away, leaving him to face the angry man.
“What’s going on, George?” Sam kept his tone carefully neutral.
“You’re...what’s goin’ on, preacher.”
Early had been right. Jenkins was clearly drunk. His words were slurred, his face flushed, and his eyes were not quite focused.
With effort, Sam remained polite. “There’s probably a better time and place to explore our differences. Why don’t I come to your house tomorrow, and we can talk about this all you want?”
“You...’umiliated my boy! Right in front of...of his frien’s...and those damn quilters....”
Sam had guessed this visit was about Leon. He wondered how much of the story the boy had told his father and what his version had sounded like.
Sam explained. “Leon tried to take a sledgehammer to the new sign. I stopped him and sent him home. That’s about it for the facts.”
George took a step closer and stuck his finger in the air near Sam’s nose. “You had no right!”
“George, I was trying to keep the sheriff out of it.”
“I’m gonna get you fired. You see...if I don’t.”
Sam hoped that was all the man needed to say. He saw no point in listening to more. “Why don’t you go home now? One of your friends will drive you. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Sam started to turn away, a mistake he only realized when he heard George’s angry grunt. He whirled back just in time to see a fist coming directly at his face.
Sam was a coal miner’s son. He had spent his childhood years in a Pennsylvania coal patch defending a skinny younger brother from the sons of other coal miners. He did what came naturally. Lifting one arm, he blocked George’s punch, stepping sideways as he did. George, off balance to begin with, stumbled forward and fell to the floor at Sam’s feet.
Everyone stared. George lay as still as a corpse.
“He’s breathing,” Early said at last.
Sam felt only a touch of remorse. He had not punched Jenkins, only blocked his poorly aimed attack. He squatted and put his hand on the man’s neck. Jenkins’s pulse was strong and steady.
“Would that be a new version of turning the other cheek, pastor?” Early asked.
* * *
Elisa waved goodbye to the neighbor who had dropped her off at the church for the evening. She had promised to return when Elisa finished, despite Elisa’s assurances it wasn’t necessary. The Latino families at the park watched out for each other. During her months in residence, Elisa had done her share of favors for some of the young mothers, and the favors had been returned in a number of ways.
The night had turned cooler, and despite the afternoon storm, the humidity seemed to be dropping. She could hear music playing and wondered if her ears deceived her. Someone was singing in Spanish.
“Miss?”
Her head shot up, and she gazed in the direction the voice had come from. A young man—all too familiar—materialized from the deepening shadows at the front of the church.
She took a step backward. “What do you want?”
“Please...” He put his hands out, palms up, in supplication. “I—I’m sorry about, you know, that thing with the sign.”
“Were you waiting here just to tell me that?”
Leon Jenkins—now she remembered his name—shoved his hands in the pockets of baggy jeans. “I—you’ve got to help me.”
“I doubt I have to do anything.” She stepped forward to make up for the ground she’d lost. Anger shot through her as she remembered how vulnerable she’d felt when he’d stood in front of her with a sledgehammer. “And unless you’re really not very smart, you realize there are people nearby, yes? People who will come if I scream.”
“Don’t scream!” He looked around. “I mean, there’s no reason to scream. God, that will make things a whole lot worse.”
“I doubt your God has a thing to do with this. Maybe you ought to leave.”
“But I can’t! It’s my dad. He’s inside. And, well, somebody’s got to help me get him outside so I can take him home.”
She had no idea what he was talking about, and her expression must have said so.
“My dad, he’s, you know, mad at Reverend Sam. Real mad. Furious. I came home all wet and, like, soaked from that walk. And I had to tell him what happened. And I didn’t blame anybody. I told him it was just me being stupid.”
For the first time she noticed a bruise on his cheek. “He hit you?”
“He never hits me. I...tripped.”
She would just bet he’d tripped. Right into his father’s fist. She was beginning to feel sorry for the boy, and sorrier for falling prey to pity.
“Why does somebody need to get your dad and bring him outside?”
“Because he’s drunk, that’s why! And if I go in there by myself...”
Good old dad would hit him again. She saw the fear, and, worse, she saw the love. The boy was worried about his father’s safety.
“Leon—that’s your name, yes?”
He
