Cast a Blue Shadow. P. L. Gaus
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you’ll never understand unless we start now.”
“What about what I want?” Sonny asked weakly.
“What you want? I’m talking about you, Sonny!” Favor shouted and shook his shoulders. “Henry, put it all on your screen there.”
DiSalvo stroked the keys of his laptop, and Juliet led her son to a seat beside the lawyer. On the screen, Sonny read an outline of his future. Board memberships in three companies upon graduation. Directorships after an MBA. CEO of one company at twenty-eight. More positions and responsibilities with each coming year. And last, when his mother was gone, complete control of the Favor fortune. The enormity of the plan staggered him, and he could not think clearly. His mind struggled with the notion that so much had been planned for him, and he felt caged. He wondered, briefly, how Martha Lehman would fit into such a life.
“Sonny,” Juliet said and sat down beside him. “Sonny, listen.
“You’ve been sheltered, Sonny. Now it’s time you faced the destiny your father and I have laid out for you. Wealth is more than money. It’s the one asset that rises above all others. It’s the only reliable commodity this world has to offer. It is the supreme commodity, Sonny, and you’ve got to learn to handle it. Oh, it takes many forms, and you’ll have to start learning about that. But Sonny, everything you’ll want in life derives from wealth. Your estate. Freedom. Power and choice. These all lie subordinate to the one thing that drives them all—raw, fabulous wealth.”
Sonny sat for a long moment as if hypnotized. He eventually stirred, and Juliet drew him to his feet.
“Now, Sonny,” she said. “Many people will come and go tonight. I want you to stay close beside me. Follow me. Listen. Learn tonight, Sonny. I do it all for you. Life’s a dance. It can be orchestrated. Watch me lead the first dance of wealth, Sonny—the Puppeteer’s Waltz. You’ve got to learn to be a puppeteer if you’re ever going to handle wealth properly.”
3
Friday, November 1
8:10 P.M.
IN MILLERSBURG, Martha Lehman parked Sonny Favor’s silver Lexus in the deep snow on the parking lot of Cal Troyer’s little white church house. A ground light shined through the falling snow to illuminate the church sign: Church of Christ, Christian. Caleb Troyer, Pastor.
Martha dried her eyes and pushed the car door open, scraping the drifts aside with the bottom edge of the door. She stepped out and sank into the snow, soaking her hose and shoes. She folded her black parka closed in front by wrapping her arms across her chest and trudged, head down against the blowing snow, to the side door of the church building, which she found unlocked. Inside, she slipped out of her parka, took off her wet shoes, and sat in the dark sanctuary’s first pew. She stared at the gold cross on the plain oak altar and tried to think. To formulate a plan.
Clearly her first meeting with Sonny’s mother had been a disaster. What right did she have to talk that way? There seemed little point in going back. But even more troubling was Sonny’s reaction. Or rather his lack of one. Send her away with his car? What had that been about? And not to have come with her?
Hurt as much as angry, Martha got up from the pew and paced in front of the altar. Frustrated, she stopped, looked at the cross, lifted her eyes to the ceiling, and shouted, “Why can’t you let me be happy? I deserve to be happy!”
From the back of the sanctuary, Cal Troyer answered, “Looks like you’ve come to the right place, Martha.”
Martha spun around and saw the short pastor coming slowly down the center aisle. “How long have you been there, Cal?” Martha asked.
“Just got here now,” Cal said, removing his coat and stomping snow off his boots onto the carpet. “I saw a car in the parking lot.”
His long white hair was tied in a ponytail. Calm eyes anchored his round face, and he smiled at her as he approached.
Martha, unnerved as usual by his peacefulness and grace, sat down and said, “Everything’s falling apart, Cal. My boyfriend’s mother hates me, and I can’t sleep through the night. My professors aren’t happy with my work anymore, and my parents think I’m a tramp. I just want to be happy, Cal. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing at all,” Cal said. He sat beside her and took her hands in his. “Maybe you and I need to pray about this.”
“A lot of good that’ll do,” Martha said bitterly.
“I can’t believe you mean that.”
“Maybe I’m not the girl you think I am, Cal.”
“You know you can talk to me,” Cal said. “Any time, and about anything.”
“I’ve lost my way.”
“Is it really that bad?” Cal asked.
“Nothing’s right anymore, Cal,” Martha said. Tears formed in her eyes. “There’s something wrong with me. Something really big. Something’s broken, and I’ve known I wasn’t normal for a long time. It’s horrible. You wouldn’t believe my nightmares. I can’t get a minute’s peace. I don’t know. Everything goes rotten on me. School, friends. Boyfriend. Why does God hate me?”
“He doesn’t,” Cal said softly.
“Why can’t I remember my childhood?”
Cal waited a beat, then said, “What do you mean?”
“My psychiatrist knows more about my childhood than I do.”
“You weren’t much of a talker, Martha.”
“Yeah, but why? Something must have happened. From five or six to about nine, I can’t remember a thing. After that, I did bad things, Cal. Still do.”
“What does Dr. Carson say?”
“That I have issues. Something I haven’t been able to face. She says when I’m ready to face it, I’ll remember.”
“Tell me about your nightmares.”
“You’ll think I’m nuts.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s always a blue shirt. An Amish shirt. Flies off a clothesline and wraps over my face so I can’t breathe.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s heavy, Cal. The shirt is heavy on me. It gets on top of me, and I can’t breathe. Then all the other laundry on the line starts whispering. It’s Amish laundry. Amish whispering. It all piles up on me. It’s supposed to be light as a breeze, but I can’t move. Can’t get up. I’m gasping for air.”
“Have you told anyone?”
“Just you.”
“Dr. Carson could help.”
“I don’t want doctors anymore. Don’t want to be sick anymore,” Martha said, crying again. “Why can’t I be normal?”
“We need to pray about this,” Cal said.
“God doesn’t answer my prayers.”
“Have you tried?”
“Not lately.”
“You ought to.”
“God doesn’t care about me. I’ve known that since I was a kid,” Martha said and rose. There was a wild anger in her eyes.
She grabbed her parka off the pew, and then sat back down to put on her shoes. Getting up again, she said, “I’m in trouble, again, Cal. So you tell me. How has God ever cared even two cents for me?”
4
Friday, November 1
8:30 P.M.
JULIET