Power in the Blood

There was a large stacked-stone fireplace on the back wall, which we faced as we entered the room. It had an unvarnished wood hearth that was filled with pictures and marksman trophies. Above the fireplace on the dark paneling wall, the head of a large elk was mounted. On the other wall to the left, where the TV sat on a built-in shelf, hung other animal heads-deer, bear, boar, and moose. Dad was a real man’s man. I was a real disappointment to him in this regard.

He took a seat in an old gray recliner that was positioned in front of the TV. It creaked when he plopped down in it. The only other place to sit was a dark gray couch in front of the wall opposite the fireplace, but to sit there was to sit behind him, so I stood.

The house smelled as it always smelled-dusty, slightly mildewed, and like a pack of wild dogs lived there. The pack-of-wilddogs smell came from Wallace, an Irish setter who was currently occupying the couch-another reason I stood.

I glanced over my shoulder toward the kitchen, where I could see food on the small yellow table and dishes piled in the sink, a look not unfamiliar to me. I looked back at Dad. He was staring at the TV, which showed two boxers-a white one and a black one. The black one was being cruel and unusually punishing to the white one. Dad leaned forward slightly as if to hear what the announcers were saying, but the sound was muted.

“Dad, you okay?” I asked. He was always quiet, but now he seemed depressed, preoccupied. As always, his expressions and gestures were small and understated. He was the kind of man who would walk not run out of a burning building.

“Yes, I’m fine, but your mother’s not,” he said without his usual disgust when she was the topic of conversation.

They were divorced when I was fourteen, when her drinking had progressed to the point that it was no longer safe to leave my brother and me with her. He divorced her after almost eighteen years and about a million second chances. The patience of Job comes to mind. It was at this time that my sister Nancy divorced herself from our entire family and moved to Chicago. My brother Jake and I lived with Dad until, at seventeen, I started drinking, at which time I lived with Mom for a short time. It was during that time that I discovered that I didn’t like her any better when I was drunk.

“I know that,” I said. “I’ve never seen her when she was fine. Why are you telling me what I know so well?”

“She needs someone, and it needs to be you,” he said, only looking away from the boxing and up at me momentarily.

“Dad, we’ve been over this. I’m a recovering alcoholic. That comes first. I have a difficult enough time staying sober myself. I cannot keep her sober as well. I’m sorry, but I’m not responsible for her sobriety, and I do not hold her responsible for mine.”

“I’m not asking you to keep her sober,” he said, his voice cracking a little. “I’m asking you to comfort her. She’s dying, John.”

“She’s not dying,” I said. “She’s manipulating you, Dad.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not like before. She really is dying. I talked to her doctor. She has cirrhosis of the liver and kidney failure. She won’t last long.”

“What?” I asked in shock, waves of guilt beginning to roll over me.

“She’s dying,” he whispered. “She doesn’t have too much longer, though the doctor doesn’t know for sure how long.”

God forgive me, I’m a heartless son. She was reaching out for me on the phone the other night, and I was so hateful to her.

“Are you sure?” I asked again. “She called me the other night, but she sounded drunk, not sick.”

“It’s her medication. She’s in the hospital. It makes her sound drunk, but she’s really not.”

“I can’t believe it,” I said. “I was so mean to her. She’s dying.”

Suddenly my dad stood up. He was still an imposing man, with a large frame that was agile for his age.

“Listen to me, Son,” he said forcefully. “You are not to feel guilty for the other night. She told me what happened, but I told her that it was her fault. She’s cried wolf too many times for any of us to believe her. Hell, I wouldn’t have believed her if I hadn’t talked to the doctor. It’s not your fault, understand?”

That was a classic Jack Jordan statement. He said I was not to feel guilty, so that was that-I was not to feel guilty, as if I could just turn it off. However, it was classic also because he did his best to make sure that Jake and I were not manipulated by her when we were kids. He said not to feel guilty, and I didn’t, and that’s what bothered me the most. I felt guilty in my head. I knew I had been too harsh on the phone the other night. But in my heart I felt no guilt. I felt nothing.

“She needs someone right now,” Dad said, “and that can’t be me. Jake’s not cut out for it, and the only thing Nancy’s going to do is dance when she’s dead. It can only be you. You’re a minister, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, I’m a minister. And, I would find it easier to minister to anyone in this world other than her.”

“You can’t do it?” he asked.

“I am going to do it,” I said. “I just question how effective it will be.”

“You’ll do great, Son. You’ve got a gift. Now, sit down here, and let’s watch some boxing.” I knew he would say no more about Mom.

“I’ve got to go, Dad. I’ve got a service to do at the prison. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. By the way, how’s the investigation going?”

“Barely going at all, I think, but it’s hard to tell. You can go along and think you’ve got nothing, and then you’ve got everything. Who knows?”

“Well, you keep me posted. This is still my county.” “I will, Dad,” I said. “And, about Mom, too.” “Yeah, thanks,” he said but his mind was back on boxing.

Chapter 26

“I know of no other way to put this,” I said, “so I am just going to come out and say it.”

“Okay,” Jasper said as he nodded his head up and down. He was as big an inmate as we had on the compound-well over six and a half feet tall and well over two hundred eighty pounds. He had skin the color of Tupelo honey and teeth to match. His hair was always unruly, and his two front teeth were separated by nearly a quarter of an inch, causing him to look like a black David Letterman.

“I hear that you’re one of the main suppliers of drugs on the compound.”

We were seated in my office in the chapel on Sunday morning around ten. My eyes stung, and I spoke, as best I could, between yawns. I needed some rest. I needed some sleep. I also needed to know if I had the AIDS virus floating around in my blood.

It was less than an hour until the service, and the sounds of the choir rehearsing could be heard from within the chapel sanctuary. The song they were rehearsing for today’s service was “Power in the Blood.” If Jasper Evans were dealing drugs, then I wanted him to deal himself out of that choir.

Would you be free from the burden of sin? There’s power in the blood, power in the blood; Would you o’er evil a victory win? There’s wonderful power in the blood.

I was anxious to get the conversation over because when I had arrived at my office, I had discovered in my mail another letter from the killer. I was dying to read the letter, but I had to wait until I was alone.

Since he didn’t answer, I asked him again, “Are you?”

There is power, power, wonder-working power in the blood of the lamb. There is power, power, wonder-working power in the precious blood of the lamb.

He continued to look as if I had asked him to explain to me the theory of relativity. Finally, he shrugged, tilted his head to the left, and made an expression that said, What can I say?

He didn’t seem overly concerned that I knew.

“How long has this been going on?” I asked.

“A while,” he said.

“And you saw no conflict between what you’re doing and being our minister of music?”