printed nearly forty pages of information aboutcertain circles of not-quite-mainstream Christians. Even at first glance, parts of it were highly disturbing.
About to drive away, the laptop and printouts stashed in the trunk, he remembered the Glenlivet and ran back for it. It should have gone in the trunk, but he tucked it carefully under the passenger seat instead.
It was a ten-minute drive to the tree-filled campus that was a second home to him. He nipped into the dragon’s lair, but Farnsworth wasn’t in her office. Grateful for small blessings, Jack loitered in the hallway and pondered his immediate future.
If he took a leave of absence, he’d be out for the rest of the semester. His colleagues would be great about covering for him, but he hated to impose on them. Who could cover for Miranda though? Timothy and Rebekah? Even if their mom came home in a day or two, they’d be shouldering burdens far beyond their years for weeks.
That settled it. He solicited the leave-of-absence paperwork from Farnsworth’s admin and nailed down some temporary workload arrangements, subject to change. With that process underway, he picked up a slew of work from his own office and ran for his car.
As he drove across the campus, a dark mood descended on him. He faced a long haul through the mountains, his destination a run-down log home on a lonely hillside. He’d be stuck there for days, maybe for weeks. He had no friends in Slades Creek. No adult company. Nobody but six sheltered kids. And, soon, their mother, who fasted so she could “hear God.” Jack couldn’t imagine hearing a personal message from God. It didn’t fit into his theological framework.
He tried to picture this Mason Chandler whose teachings Miranda followed. A stern, bearded figure like an Old Testament patriarch, perhaps, and equally devoted to rules. Not that rules were intrinsically bad.
Jack’s thoughts meandered with the winding roads. He recalled his search for coffee in Miranda’s cupboards. Instead of coffee, he’d found a container of St. John’s wort capsules. They might come in handy.
An hour and a half later, he reached Slades Creek, zipped through townwithout hitting any red lights, and continued south. The sun was sinking toward the horizon as he turned onto Larkin Road, not quite a quarter mile from Miranda’s place, and passed a small herd of goats that must have belonged to her neighbors. White scraps of movement in the twilight, they looked more like ghosts than farm animals.
Yvonne met him at the door with her tote bag slung over her shoulder. “Those children aren’t being raised right.” She glared at him as if he were to blame. “They’re sweet, every last one, but they’re almost too good. My word, they’ve never seen a movie. Not even a kids’ movie. They don’t know any songs but Scripture songs. The girls don’t own jeans. They don’t even—”
“Shh.” He sent her a warning look over the box of papers in his arms. “I know, I know.”
She came onto the porch and planted her bejeweled hands on her hips. “Well, what do you plan to do about it?”
“I don’t know, but I’m working on it.”
“Work a little faster, hon.”
“I have to proceed carefully. We’re dealing with sincere religious convictions.”
“Being sincere doesn’t make ’em right. You know their mom’s in that strange church, don’t you?”
“Do you know Miranda?”
“No, but I’ve figured out which church she’s in. When my daddy was in his right mind, he never went around bad-mouthing other preachers, but he always said Mason Chandler had some strange ideas.”
“Such as?”
“Chandler is the Lone Ranger type. He doesn’t take orders from anybody, but he orders the men around, and the men order their wives around. Those poor women don’t have a thought of their own.” Yvonne leaned closer. “They’re not even allowed to vote. ”
“Excuse me?” Jack set the box on the porch and straightened. “This is the
About to drive away, the laptop and printouts stashed in the trunk, he remembered the Glenlivet and ran back for it. It should have gone in the trunk, but he tucked it carefully under the passenger seat instead.
It was a ten-minute drive to the tree-filled campus that was a second home to him. He nipped into the dragon’s lair, but Farnsworth wasn’t in her office. Grateful for small blessings, Jack loitered in the hallway and pondered his immediate future.
If he took a leave of absence, he’d be out for the rest of the semester. His colleagues would be great about covering for him, but he hated to impose on them. Who could cover for Miranda though? Timothy and Rebekah? Even if their mom came home in a day or two, they’d be shouldering burdens far beyond their years for weeks.
That settled it. He solicited the leave-of-absence paperwork from Farnsworth’s admin and nailed down some temporary workload arrangements, subject to change. With that process underway, he picked up a slew of work from his own office and ran for his car.
As he drove across the campus, a dark mood descended on him. He faced a long haul through the mountains, his destination a run-down log home on a lonely hillside. He’d be stuck there for days, maybe for weeks. He had no friends in Slades Creek. No adult company. Nobody but six sheltered kids. And, soon, their mother, who fasted so she could “hear God.” Jack couldn’t imagine hearing a personal message from God. It didn’t fit into his theological framework.
He tried to picture this Mason Chandler whose teachings Miranda followed. A stern, bearded figure like an Old Testament patriarch, perhaps, and equally devoted to rules. Not that rules were intrinsically bad.
Jack’s thoughts meandered with the winding roads. He recalled his search for coffee in Miranda’s cupboards. Instead of coffee, he’d found a container of St. John’s wort capsules. They might come in handy.
An hour and a half later, he reached Slades Creek, zipped through townwithout hitting any red lights, and continued south. The sun was sinking toward the horizon as he turned onto Larkin Road, not quite a quarter mile from Miranda’s place, and passed a small herd of goats that must have belonged to her neighbors. White scraps of movement in the twilight, they looked more like ghosts than farm animals.
Yvonne met him at the door with her tote bag slung over her shoulder. “Those children aren’t being raised right.” She glared at him as if he were to blame. “They’re sweet, every last one, but they’re almost too good. My word, they’ve never seen a movie. Not even a kids’ movie. They don’t know any songs but Scripture songs. The girls don’t own jeans. They don’t even—”
“Shh.” He sent her a warning look over the box of papers in his arms. “I know, I know.”
She came onto the porch and planted her bejeweled hands on her hips. “Well, what do you plan to do about it?”
“I don’t know, but I’m working on it.”
“Work a little faster, hon.”
“I have to proceed carefully. We’re dealing with sincere religious convictions.”
“Being sincere doesn’t make ’em right. You know their mom’s in that strange church, don’t you?”
“Do you know Miranda?”
“No, but I’ve figured out which church she’s in. When my daddy was in his right mind, he never went around bad-mouthing other preachers, but he always said Mason Chandler had some strange ideas.”
“Such as?”
“Chandler is the Lone Ranger type. He doesn’t take orders from anybody, but he orders the men around, and the men order their wives around. Those poor women don’t have a thought of their own.” Yvonne leaned closer. “They’re not even allowed to vote. ”
“Excuse me?” Jack set the box on the porch and straightened. “This is the
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