All Through the Night by Davis Bunn Page B

living room and one in the kitchen were filled with photographs attached to drawings and letters. Some of the pictures dated back to a monochrome era of crinkled edges. Tiny black children grew to have children of their own, who drew love messages on onion skin paper, many of them addressed to someone called Maliaka. Two Anglo girls grew up amidst the dark faces, smiling and laughing with them, and now held babies of their own, and soon these babies were laughing as well. All in villages of scrub and dust and a light so strong it shone across the years. Wayne asked, “Your daughters are missionaries?”
    “One is. The other works in Cape Province. Her husband is with the UN.”
    “You miss them.”
    “They’re where they should be.” She sat as erect as a corporal on report. “Your sister Eileen tells me that your father was a pastor.”
    Wayne made a process of setting his tray to one side. “Yes.”
    “A stern man who lived in a state of perpetual disappointment, as far as you were concerned.” She did not actually sing the words. And there was not really a hint of accent. Yet something in the way she spoke suggested she had spent years thinking and dreaming in a different tongue. “A man who never approved of his uniquely special children.”
    “You got that right.” Wayne found himself so drained from the night he could speak without the old bitterness. “Eilene was the son he always wanted, only inside the wrong skin.”
    “There is absolutely nothing wrong with your sister,” Victoria replied. “Or with you.”
    The two older men sat and watched the exchange like they would a good movie, silent and absorbed. Wayne said, “You’re going to tell me to give God another chance, is that the wager?”
    “No, son. I’ve spent my entire life witnessing the bitter legacy of people forcing others to believe.” The morning light turned her features translucent. “But I will say this. God does not wear your father’s face.”
    Victoria held him. Not with anything he had ever known before. Not with anger. Not with strength or authority or seniority. With luminescence. She said, “I know your father’s ways all too well. Religion becomes another word for oppression and coercion. Religion specializes in shame and blame, a lot of energy and no inspiration.”
    “I probably deserved it.”
    “Son, listen to me. We all deserve it. Each and every one of us.” She gave him a moment. When he did not speak, she went on. “You weren’t allowed to live your own life, but instead were expected to conform to someone else’s concept of order.” She shook her head. “No wonder the old-time religion failed you.”
    Victoria leaned forward until he could see the sparks lifting from her eyes. Until he could feel them. “Jesus loves you, son. Deal with it.”
    Wayne said weakly, “You won the bet. I asked what I owed you.”
    Victoria leaned back in her chair. She did not show disapproval. Instead, the illumination dimmed somewhat. She said, “Go do whatever it is your sister asks.”
    Wayne felt as much heat as his weary frame could manage. “We didn’t say anything about transferring debts.”
    “Your first mistake was not asking.” Victoria used the arms of her chair to push herself erect. She waved away Foster’s move to her aid. She was light on her feet, scarcely more than a sweep of quilted robe and eyes of diffused light. “Your second mistake, son, is thinking your sister brought you here only for your sake.”

NINE
    T hree hours later Wayne woke from his drug-like stupor. He showered and dressed and walked over to Jerry’s. He was very glad indeed to find the big man up and about. Jerry heard him out in silence as Wayne stumbled over the words, about how a bet was a bet and he needed to get this thing over and done.
    Together they walked over and found Foster singing in the shower. Loud and off-key and happy enough to have them both smiling. Which, given the thing Wayne had staring him in the face,