“Good.”
His father seemed more alien every time he came here. But then again, maybe that foreignness had an upside. Maybe his father had changed, diverged from his mother. Maybe prison had given him some new perspective. Dill had a sudden inspiration. “Speaking of paying off debts. I had an idea. What if I were to go to college so that I could get a better job and help pay off your debts faster?”
Dill’s father regarded him with cold skepticism. “College? Is that where you mean to learn true discipleship?”
“No sir, just learn what I need to get a good job.”
He drew his face close to Dill’s. “College will teach you that God is dead. But God is not dead. He is alive and he shows himself to those whose faith shows signs of life.”
“I wouldn’t believe that God is dead.”
Dill’s father laughed curtly. “Your faith was weak. Your faith failed you on the hour it was given you to take up the deadly serpent. You were as Peter, trying to walk on the waves of the Sea of Galilee, but sinking. You need instruction and learning, but not the sort college provides.”
“I have faith.”
“What sign proves it?”
“I played in the school talent competition. That took faith.”
His father leaned back, the slightest glimmer of pleasure on his face. “Did you? Did you preach the gospel through song?”
“No.”
The glimmer of pleasure faded. “What did you sing about?”
“Loving someone.”
“Oh. ‘Loving someone,’?” Dill’s father repeated back, mockingly. “Did you risk death for Jesus’s name at this talent show?”
“No.”
“What did you risk?”
“Ridicule. Humiliation.”
“The true Christian risks that every day. We are fools for Christ. You risked nothing but your pride. I have inmates in my ministry whose faith is stronger than my own son’s. Thieves. Murderers. Rapists. You have my name. Not my faith.”
Dill felt fury building in him. “If my faith is weak, maybe it’s because of you. You’re one to talk about faith. Where was your faith when it came time to resist temptation?”
His father bent in and spoke in a hiss. “Your faith was weak even before Satan’s work destroyed our signs ministry.”
“Satan’s work? How come you didn’t tell the jury that? Why didn’t you tell them that Satan came down our chimney and downloaded kiddie porn? How come you told them it was my fault?”
His father gave him a cautioning scowl. “Satan is no joking matter. Satan has no body. He works with weak flesh.”
Dill stabbed his finger at him, his voice faltering. “Your weak flesh. Yours. Not mine. You and I both know it. And God does too.”
His father exhaled slowly, as though waiting for a wave of rage to subside. He spoke in measured tones. “Do you not see God’s hand in guiding me here to minister among the imprisoned?”
“No. I don’t see that. I see a man who’s let my mother think I got her husband locked up. I see a man who tried to save himself by destroying his own son’s reputation. I see a man who seems to be doing fine in here while Mom and I work our asses off to repay your debts.”
His father’s eyes darkened. “Watch your tongue. Our debts. Did you not eat at our table? Did you not live under our roof?”
“Your debts. And now I’m paying for your sins by watching the world move on without me. I can’t go to college like my friends because of you.”
Dill’s father pointed, his face a mask of contempt, and spoke with a perilous hush, his voice trembling with bile. “You are no savior of mine. Do not make yourself a Christ. Christ made me free. You made me a prisoner.”
Dill jumped as his father slammed his hand on the table, a sharp crack in the still room, and stood. “Goodbye, Junior. Give your mother my love.” He waved to the guards, who had tensed up at the noise. “I’m done here.”
He left without a backward glance.
Dill thought—incorrectly, as it turned out—that his exchange with his mother that morning had somehow inoculated him against more pain. He sat in the parking lot, his head in his hands, feeling as gray as the sky. Dr. Blankenship pulled up. “Hey, Dill,” he said with a cheery smile. “Candy cane truffle?”
Dill forced a smile in return. “No, thank you.”
They drove for a while before saying any more.
“I’m sorry I’m not talking, Dr. Blankenship. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“I understand. Don’t worry about it.”
More miles passed. They listened to a Christmas mix on Dr. Blankenship’s iPod.
Dill fought for composure. He assumed that he had a finite reserve of tears that he had already exhausted for the day. Wrong on that count too. He could feel a welling inside him that he couldn’t contain much longer.
“So…um.” He started to lose his grip. He choked back the tears until his throat ached the way it did right after he gulped a glass of ice water. “Things aren’t so hot with me and my dad.” And then he broke completely. He felt naked and ashamed. Adam in the Garden of Eden. But he couldn’t control it anymore.
Dr. Blankenship glanced over at him, his brow furrowed. “Hey,” he said gently. “Hey.” He pulled the car over to the side of the road. Dill had his head against the passenger window, sobs racking his shaking body.
“Hey.” Dr. Blankenship placed his hand on Dill’s shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
And out of nowhere (at least as far as Dill was concerned), he fell onto Dr. Blankenship’s shoulder. Dr. Blankenship hugged Dill while he cried. Dr. Blankenship smelled like warm cashmere, sage, and dryer sheets. Dill pulled himself together as quickly as he could, which took several minutes.
Dill drew a shuddering breath. He was a mess. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m keeping you from getting home. This probably isn’t what you expected when you offered to give me a ride.”
Dr. Blankenship rummaged around for a travel pack of tissues. “Actually, it’s sort of exactly what I expected, which is why I offered you the ride. You want to talk about it?”
Dill wiped his eyes with his palms and accepted a tissue. “Not really.”
“Okay.”
But then he did anyway. “My mom and dad both think I’m responsible for putting my dad in prison because I wouldn’t lie for him. And because he’s in prison, we have all these debts, and because of all these debts, I can’t do a lot of stuff. And my dad thinks my faith is too weak to do anything anyway. I feel trapped. I think God is punishing me.”
Dr. Blankenship sighed. “Let’s take these one at a time. First off, I’m sorry, but your dad’s predicament is not your fault in the slightest. I followed your dad’s trial. I understand why you had to testify. The jury believed you and didn’t believe him. End of story. That’s not on you. That’s on him. And if he tries to put it on you, screw him.”
Dill rested his head in his hands.
Dr. Blankenship rubbed his thumb on the steering wheel, looking uncomfortable. “Sorry. I’m not meaning to be rough on your dad.”
“It’s okay.”
“I get mad when people say that kind of stuff to kids who have their whole life in front of them. Make them doubt themselves. Your faith is plenty strong to do anything you want to do. You think God wants anything for you but your happiness? No way. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Your dad doesn’t have license to crush your spirit just because he’s your dad.”
Dill sniffled and wiped his nose. Another shuddering breath. “Please don’t tell Lydia about…this.”
Dr. Blankenship patted his shoulder. “If I know my daughter, there’s no way she’d tease you for this. She’d give you the hugs I’m here to give you.”
“Yeah.” Dill paused. “That’s another thing. I’ll really miss Lydia. Like a lot. So I guess that’s another thing that sucks.” His throat constricted.
Dr. Blankenship’s eyes welled with tears. “Aw man, Dill. Look what you did. I’m right there with you, buddy.” His voice quavered. “I’ll miss her too. That sucks for both of us.”