CHAPTER 31
Rebecca
At home the next morning, Rebecca waited until ten to call Marla about Devon, just in case the preacher’s wife slept late on her one weekend day off. But she’d barely missed her.
“She headed out not five minutes ago with three other ladies, bound for a women’s retreat,” Rev Bryant said when Rebecca rang the parsonage. “She’ll be back Sunday night.”
She sighed. “Thanks, Rev.”
“Anything I can help with?”
Rebecca hesitated; he sounded genuine. “Well, it’s probably nothing, but … I guess I’m a little worried about Devon. Marla thought he might be home sick with that virus going around. I was thinking I’d drive over to his house, maybe bring him some chicken soup.”
“You let him know I asked about him, tell him I’ll stop by after church tomorrow if he’s not there.”
“Will do.” She paused, wanting to say more, not sure exactly how to say it. I’m worried about more than Devon being sick. But the words wouldn’t come.
“You need me to come with you? Or one of the ladies from the Care Committee? I’m heading out the door to Columbia for class, but I can meet you there if you need help.”
“No, no—I’ll be fine. But thanks.”
“All right, then.” He sounded doubtful. “Hope to see you Sunday, too. You’re always welcome.”
She hung up and wandered downstairs, found Granny making a grocery list in the kitchen.
“Feel like taking a ride?”
Twenty minutes later, they were driving west on Aberville Road toward James Watkins. The day was beautiful, no rain in sight yet, and a tall container of homemade chicken noodle soup, courtesy of Smathers Grocery, rested on the floorboard at Granny’s feet.
Granny reached over, patted her leg. “I’m sure he’s fine, sweet girl.”
Rebecca cut her eyes at Granny. “I’m probably going to embarrass him, showing up at his house like this.”
“Pfff, nonsense. It’s being neighborly.”
“Well, I don’t exactly have a lot of experience with that.”
Devon’s neighborhood was older, a mix of small, squat concrete shack-looking structures and singlewides, more than one house with a “foreclosure” sign. The cars were older, too, and rundown, some parked in the front yards.
“Baker Street.” Granny read the sign aloud, pointing, and Rebecca turned left, counted the numbers dropping. There, on the right.
“Two-twenty-one. Like your birthday, Granny,” she said.
The house looked well-kept and lived-in, with a front window open to let in the breeze. A clay pot with flowers stood on the porch with a cheerful mat proclaiming “Welcome.”
She and Granny approached the door, and she knocked before she could lose her nerve.
A kid just a little older than Devon answered the door. He had pale skin and shaggy brown hair, a blue Dahlia Baptist T-shirt, and only one sock. In his hand was a bowl of what looked like corn puffs.
“Well, hello there, CJ,” Granny said.
“Uh, hi, Miz Helen.”
Rebecca peered past him. “We’re looking for Devon. Devon Robinson?”
“CJ, who’s at the door?” a woman’s voice called, and CJ yelled back, “Nobody, Ma!”
He turned back to them. “Sorry, you got the wrong house.” He looked uncomfortable. “Devon lives up the road a ways.”
He pointed, and Rebecca and Granny stared in that direction, confused.
“Is this two-twenty-one?” Rebecca asked.
“Yeah.”
Granny frowned. “CJ, honey, do you happen to know Devon’s house number?”
A guarded look came over CJ’s face. “Uh, I don’t remember. It’s that way somewhere.” He glanced behind him. “Gotta go. See you Monday, Miz Helen.”
They got back in the car, and Rebecca looked over at Granny.
“I know Devon said two-twenty-one.”
Granny pursed her lips. “Let’s call Rev Bryant, see if he knows the address.”
But Rev didn’t answer. They cruised slowly up the street, watching the numbers rise. Three-fifteen. Four-hundred-one.
“There!” Granny pointed.
A small black sign with silvery lettering read “Robinson.”
Rebecca pulled into the driveway slowly, took it in, as if trying to piece together bits of the real Devon.
The house wasn’t terrible, a modest concrete one-story with a little yard.
The yard was overgrown, and a brown Cadillac was parked in the carport.
But unlike CJ’s house, this one had an empty look, quiet, like no one lived there and hadn’t for ages.
The curtains were drawn, and in the back, she could barely glimpse what remained of an old chain link fence.
“Looks like someone’s home,” Granny said as Rebecca pulled in behind the Cadillac and turned off the ignition, mouth dry.
“Maybe it’s the uncle.” Rebecca made a face. “And surely his Memaw’s here. I don’t imagine she gets out much. Devon said she has problems with her legs, I think from arthritis.”
They got out of the car with the soup, walked to the tiny front porch. From somewhere not too far away, a big dog barked. Pit bull, maybe, or Rottweiler. The kind that probably liked to attack defenseless women and their grannies who showed up unannounced and uninvited.
This is a bad idea. Her head and heart pounded in sync. Devon clearly didn’t want her coming around the house, had made excuses every time she’d offered a lift home, had even given her a fake address. She was going to make him feel awkward, pressured, maybe push him away entirely.
But Josh popped into her mind then, and his words. God gives us instincts for a reason.
She bit her lip, gathered her nerve, and knocked quickly on the front door.
Nothing.
She knocked again, louder.
“Maybe they’re asleep,” Granny murmured.
They were turning to leave when they heard the sharp thwack of a door lock turning, and then the creak as the metal door opened a crack.
A man in a white tank top and blue jeans peered out behind the door chain, eyes narrowed. The house was dark behind him, and his eyes looked off somehow, as if he’d just woken up. Maybe he was sick, too. She could hear the faint hum of a television set on in the background.
“Mr. Robinson?” Rebecca’s smile felt tight, and she swallowed hard, stomach clenched. “I’m Rebecca Chastain, and this is my granny, Helen Chastain. We’re friends of Devon’s. He missed camp Friday and we thought maybe he was sick, brought him some chicken soup.”
She held out the soup container, feeling inane.
The man just stared at her, made no move to take the soup.
“I—ah.” She held onto the soup and tried to smile. “Is he home?”
“Kid’s asleep.” His voice was cold, quiet, but with enough of an edge that Rebecca swallowed.
“Okey doke, well, would you mind telling him we stopped by?” The smile froze on her face.
Behind them, a car rolled slowly by, got to the corner, then turned and circled back. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she held the soup out toward him again.
He took a step back. “We don’t need no charity.” The word came out like he’d tasted something bad.
Rebecca felt rather than saw Granny stiffen.
“We’re just friends, just trying to say hi.” Rebecca’s eyes widened, and she held up a hand. “No harm meant.”
“He don’t need no friends, neither. Specially friends like you.”
Granny put a hand on her arm. Time to go. They turned, started back toward the car.
The door shut before they got off the porch, and Rebecca could hear the door lock turning back in place. She shivered, then set the soup down on the porch, left it in case.
“Wow,” Rebecca muttered as she reversed out of the driveway.
Granny exhaled sharply. “Wow is right.”
“I can’t believe Devon lives there, with someone like that.” She clutched the wheel as she drove home the way she’d come, past rickety houses and rundown yards with stories untold, stories she ached to uncover. She glanced at Granny. “I mean, did you get as much of a bad-news vibe as I did?”
Granny sighed. “I hate to say it, but yes. I did.”
Silence settled over them, and they were past James Watkins and heading toward Main Street when Granny spoke again.
“I think we need to call social services.”
Rebecca nodded. “I do, too. That guy had Class A drug dealer written all over him, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Devon were in trouble. Real trouble.”
“Me, too.”
“I just wish we could talk to him. Figure out some way past the uncle.”
The sound of children laughing in the streets pierced the air as they drove through Dahlia proper now, cruising past sunny, lived-in homes.
Outside one, a half-dozen happy children leaped through a sprinkler, a smattering of moms watching and chatting, oblivious to the fact that five minutes away, life for another set of kids was far, far different.
“What about Rev and Marla?” Granny asked. “Surely we’re not the only ones concerned about Devon. They see him a lot more than we do—maybe they have a way to check on him, or know a neighbor who can.”
Rebecca nodded, squinting against the sun. “It’s worth a try.”
At the house, she dialed the parsonage again. Rev didn’t answer, so she left a message with as much detail as she could.
“That’s the best we can do for now.” Rebecca sat heavily at the kitchen table.
Granny leaned over, kissed her hair. Rebecca held her close, and they stayed that way a moment, so quiet they could hear the faint tick of the kitchen wall clock.
“You know, girl, we can do one better,” Granny said.
Rebecca gave a wry smile, but she held out her hands as Granny sank into the chair next to her, and they bowed their heads. Granny’s words were simple—Lord, help Devon, keep him safe, shine your light of protection upon him. Help us to help him.
When Granny finished, Rebecca opened her eyes and took a breath. She wasn’t sure how “giving it to God” was supposed to feel, but her chest felt lighter somehow, and her head felt clearer. She surprised herself by blinking away tears.
“I love you, Granny.”
Granny smiled, still holding onto Rebecca’s hands. “Love you too, girl.”
They were getting out bread and tomatoes to make sandwiches when Rebecca’s cell phone rang. She snagged it off the counter, hoping it was Rev calling her back, but she didn’t recognize the number.
“Rebecca, this is Lib Pauling.” The gruff voice made her shake her head.
“Uh, hi, Li—Mrs. Pauling.”
The woman sniffed. “I have two tickets to the humane society gala tonight, but I’m not feeling well. I wondered if you and your Granny might want to go in my place.”
Rebecca wrinkled her nose. The last thing she wanted to do on a free Saturday night was schmooze with dolled-up Dahlia residents, especially with worries about Devon on her mind.
“Who is it?” Granny mouthed.
Rebecca covered the mouthpiece. “Lib Pauling. Wants to know if we’d like to go to the humane society gala tonight.”
A sparkle lit Granny’s eyes, and before she knew it, Rebecca found herself accepting the tickets from Lib, making plans.
“It’ll be fun! A girls’ night out, you and me,” Granny said when Rebecca hung up, and Rebecca giggled in spite of herself. “We could go shopping, buy a new dress. I don’t remember the last time I bought a new dress for a night out.”
Something about Granny’s wistful expression tugged at Rebecca’s heart.
“You know what? Let’s do it—a girls’ shopping day, a nice lunch out, and a night at the gala. It does sound fun!”
She dialed Tiff to let the girl know she was off the hook for the night. Across the line, she swore she heard the reporter clap.
“Thanks, Boss!” Tiff sounded positively thrilled. “I, ah, had to turn down a date for tonight. Looks like I can call him back and say yes after all.”
Rebecca was still smiling as she hung up.