The Glorious Prodigal Read online

  “John and Jeanine will be leaving Africa in time to be here.”

  “A mighty long way to come for a party,” Zach said. Nevertheless, he was pleased, for John Winslow had been such a wild young man. Now, however, he had settled down and married a fine woman named Jeanine Quintana. They were serving as missionaries in Africa. “Be good to see them and that granddaughter of mine, Mallory. Never laid eyes on her. Ain’t right a man should have a grandchild and not lay eyes on her.”

  “What about Phil and Cara?” Lobo asked. “They going to be able to make it?”

  “Yes. Phil’s doing a show, but he’s going to cut it short.”

  “Seems funny to have an artist as a son,” Zach muttered. “All the rest of us Winslows were roughnecks.”

  “Will they bring all the kids with them?”

  “Yes. All three.” Then she added, “Bill and Elaine will be here with their kids. And, of course, Tom and Helen and Betsy and Wesley. They’ll all be here except Logan, of course.”

  “I reckon he’s got better things to do, like shootin’ down enemy planes. I wish he’d shoot down that horrible Red Baron.”

  “That might take some doin’,” Lobo said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

  “Look, there’s the mail. I’ll go get it,” Lanie said.

  “No, let me. You sit here and drink the rest of my tea.” Lobo got up and strolled out to the mailbox, where Ernest Benegian pulled up in his Studebaker and leaned out.

  “Here’s the mail, Lobo. How you doin’?”

  “Fine.”

  “Read about that boy of yours shootin’ down half the German air force. Congratulations. That’s some son you got there.”

  “We’re right proud of him,” Lobo said. He turned and walked back to the house carrying a handful of envelopes and gave them all to Zach, who sorted through them. He handed most of them back to Lanie.

  “Mostly bills and advertisements for stuff we don’t need,” he muttered.

  Lanie left soon to start dinner, and Lobo sat with the old man, listening as always. He respected Zach Winslow as he respected few others and knew that time was short. He looked up finally and said, “We got a visitor.”

  “Who is it? My eyes ain’t as good as they used to be.”

  “Looks like Tom. Yeah, it is in that fancy car of his. What is it? A Stutz Bearcat. He’s gonna get killed the way he drives that thing. Give me a horse and buggy any day.”

  “I guess we’re kind of past that,” Zach said sadly. But he cheered up as the automobile stopped with a loud explosion out front and Tom Winslow came sailing out. He was a tall man with astonishing red hair, for which he was teased unmercifully. His father often told him, “You ain’t none of ours. We found you under a farkleberry bush!” But wherever it came from, it highlighted Tom’s light blue eyes.

  Lobo rose, saying, “Hello, Tom. I’ll let you sit here and listen to some of your dad’s lies. I’ve had about all I can take.”

  “Okay, Lobo.” Tom plumped himself down, leaned over, and patted his father on the knee. “How are you, Dad?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “You never do,” Tom said. He sobered briefly as he noticed the lines of pain and marks of weariness on his father’s face. He had a quick memory of Zach Winslow when he had been a younger man, full of strength. Now that day had passed, and Tom covered up his surprise at the toll the years had taken on his father.

  The two men talked for a while, and Tom said, “I’m staying overnight if I can have my old room.”

  “Go get unpacked, and then maybe we’ll go for a drive tonight. I’d like to look over the place.”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  Tom went inside, kissed his mother, then moved his things upstairs. When he had finished unpacking his few belongings for his overnight stay, he looked around the room and thought of the years he had spent growing up here. They had been good years. He and his brothers had learned to ride wild horses, they had hunted and fished and rodeoed together. Now they were all grown, and he felt a sudden nostalgia for the good old days. He was a successful lawyer in Springfield now with a fine wife and family, but as he stood in the midst of the old trophies tacked to the wall, he suddenly laughed.

  “You can’t go home again,” he said. “I can’t be sixteen years old anymore. I have to be what I am.” Then he went downstairs and found his sister with a worried frown.

  “Something’s wrong with Dad,” she said.

  “It’s not his heart, is it?” Tom demanded quickly.

  “No. I don’t mean physically. He got a letter. He didn’t tell me what it was, but it bothered him. I could see that.” Lanie was mixing up biscuits, and she stopped and wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m worried about him, Tom. Go out and talk to him. Maybe he’ll tell you.”

  “Sure, Lanie.”

  Going back on the porch, Tom sat down and stretched his long legs out, but he was too good a lawyer to say anything. He saw immediately that Lanie had been right. Something was bothering Zach, but the old man would have to come out with it himself, which he finally did, but not right off. As was his way, Zach began talking about something else.

  “Wish I could have known Gilbert Winslow,” he said, giving a quick glance at his son. “Been studying the old genealogy and the journal he left.”

  “That’s some journal,” Tom said.

  The journal of Gilbert Winslow, the first of the Winslows to come to America, was indeed a treasure. It revealed the heart of a man struggling with himself and finally finding God. It also revealed a love story. Gilbert Winslow fell in love with Humility Cooper.

  Tom smiled and said, “I know that journal by heart. I wish there were a picture of him.”

  “There was one of his brother Edward, but do you know that’s the only person who came on the Mayflower we have a picture of? Of course, Edward was a famous man, so he had commissioned more than one portrait of himself. Why, he became governor of the colony and all that. He was a fine-looking fellow with auburn hair. Not as bright as yours, but lots of Winslows have had it. Same kind of tapered face and light blue eyes. All Winslow men look pretty much alike.”

  The two talked about the Winslows for some time. Indeed, the Winslow family was most interesting. The extensive family line included judges, governors, hunters, prizefighters, and some missionaries. Most of them had left a good legacy, serving well, but as is common, there had been a few black sheep along the way.

  Tom finally said, “I’d like to have a reunion and get as many of the Winslows together as we can. Not just our own family, but all the rest that are scattered out all over the country. I’d like to see Cass Winslow and Barney from over in Africa. Some of those who have really made a mark in the world and those who haven’t, too. We can’t all be heroes,” he laughed.

  Zach was silent for a time, and then finally he said, “You better have it soon, Tom. I won’t be around to enjoy a get-together like that much longer.”

  “Oh, Dad—”

  “I’m not complaining, Tom. I’ve had a good life. I’ve had a good family, and I’m anxious to see heaven.”

  “I hope it won’t be for a long time, Dad.”

  “I got a letter that’s brought me some grief,” Zach said.

  “What is it, Dad? Maybe I can help.”

  “Here. I want you to read it, but before you do, let me tell you a little about something you don’t know about.” Zach clasped his hands together, dropped his head, and was quiet for a moment. Then he shook his shoulders and handed the letter over. “It’s from Diane Winslow.”

  “Who’s she, Dad?”

  “Well, go get that genealogy chart, and I’ll show you. It’s on my desk.”

  “All right, Dad.” Tom went at once to the desk and came back with the chart that showed the extensive Winslow family tree in a diagram. He laid it out on Zach’s lap, and the old man touched it with a thin finger.

  “Right here. You look at this. My father, Silas, your grandfather, had a brother who was one year older.
His name was Maylon. He married Harriett Moore in 1828. They had one son named Henry. He was my first cousin. He married his childhood sweetheart, Nellie Atkins, in 1850. Sadly, she died giving birth to their only child, named Richard. Maylon and Harriet raised Richard after Henry was killed fighting for the Union at Gettysburg.”

  From far off the sound of a coyote sounded. It was a sad, plaintive sound to Tom, who had never liked it. He saw his father look up for a moment, take in the sound, and then continue.

  “When you were one year old, Tom—that was in 1876, of course—the bottom dropped out for me. Lanie was nine, Betsy was three, and I bought this place mostly on credit. I got into the worst financial mess you can ever imagine.”

  “I never knew that, Dad.”

  “Well, I ain’t proud of it. I overextended on it. Bought too much land, but I wanted a big family, and I wanted to give all of you something when I left. Well, anyway, I was going down the drain. Then you got sick, Tom, real sick. Medical expenses were high, and it just about scared me witless.”

  “I remember Mom talking about that.”

  “She was scared, too. And then she got sick. It was the worst time in my life, Tom. Worse than anything that happened to me during the war. I was a believer, but my faith got shook pretty good. For a while it seemed as though God had forgotten me.”

  Tom listened carefully, his analytical mind clicking. “What happened, Dad?”

  “Well, we just reached plum bottom, your mom and me. We had you three kids, and we were gonna lose this place. There wasn’t any way out. I’d been to every banker . . . everybody I knew that might lend me money. No luck.”

  Tom saw that this moment from back in time was very real to his father. “What happened, Dad?” he asked quietly. “Obviously you didn’t lose the place.”

  “Your mom never gave up. She was a praying woman, you know, and she kept telling me, sick as she was, that God was going to help us. Well, it was just four days until we were about to lose this place when all of a sudden a knock came at the door. Your mama was too sick to get out of bed, so I answered the door, and when I opened it, there stood my cousin Richard and his wife, Diane.”

  Tom smiled at the expression on his father’s face. “What did they say?”

  “Richard said, ‘Cousin, I’m here to take over. You just sit back and I’ll handle it.’ ”

  “And you say you didn’t know him all that well?”

  “No. But Bronwen had been writing to his grandmother, Harriet Winslow, who was still alive at the time. They knew how bad off we were. I’m telling you they just took over, Tom! Richard had some money from his grandfather, Maylon, and he had a lot of business sense. They paid our bills and got us back on our feet. Richard somehow just handled it. And Diane nursed you and your mother back to health.”

  “That’s a wonderful story, Dad. I’m glad you told me.”

  “Well, as you can imagine, Tom, I’ve never forgotten that. I paid Richard back the money he spent, of course, but that didn’t change anything. I’ve never ceased to be grateful. Been one of the sad things in my life that I haven’t been able to be with Richard and his family very much. Now read the letter.”

  Tom opened the letter and began to read.

  My dear Zach,

  I have been hesitant to write this letter, but the Lord has been speaking to my heart. You know, of course, the trouble we had with our son Stuart.

  Tom looked up and said, “What trouble did they have with Stuart?”

  “He killed a man and got sent to the state penitentiary. That was about seven years ago, I think. Go on and read.”

  As you can imagine, I’ve been praying for Stuart ever since he went to prison. We’ve had no contact with him these past seven years. We tried to write to him, but our letters were all returned unopened, and the prison officials told us Stuart wanted no visitors, so we know nothing of what has happened to him there. Lately God has put a vision of some kind into my heart. I can’t explain it, but He keeps telling me to write to you. I have no idea why, Zach. I believe with all my heart that God is going to get my boy out of prison, but I realize that you are not in good health and can’t imagine why God would have me put another burden on you. Please don’t take this as a burden.

  Richard and I have always loved you and your family, and we ask you to pray for us and especially for Stuart.

  Your loving cousin,

  Diane Winslow

  Tom read the letter again quickly and then looked up at his father. He saw the disturbance in his father’s face and said, “This bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does, Tom, and I can tell it’s not going to get any better. Richard and Diane did everything for us. I don’t know what would have become of us if they hadn’t come.”

  “Do you know any of the details of their son’s crime?”

  “Not really. It was open and shut, I think. Probably he was guilty. If I remember correctly, he did shoot the man.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean guilt,” Tom said quickly.

  Zach looked up and reached out. There was a surprising strength in his hand as he gripped Tom’s wrist. “Tom, we Winslows have got to stick together. The world’s falling apart. You’ve got a nephew that’s putting his life on the line every day.”

  Tom put his hand on his father’s hand. “What do you want me to do, Dad?”

  “I want you to go and talk to Stuart, talk to his family, talk to the warden, talk to anybody you can. I know you’re a busy man, but if you’d do this one thing for me, Tom, I’d consider it a personal favor.”

  Tom’s eyes suddenly grew dim with tears. It was the first favor his father had ever asked of him. He did not even pause for one moment but shoved all of his busy engagements out of the way. “Of course I’ll go, Dad. I’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you, son.” Zach looked fondly at this tall son of his and said, “Remember how in the book of Esther she had to take a chance and risk her life for her people, and Mordecai said, ‘Maybe you’ve come to the kingdom for such a time as this.’ Maybe, Tom, you’ve become a lawyer, a defense attorney, for just this one thing.”

  ****

  Tom left early the next morning. First he needed to go back to Springfield to see his wife, Helen, and children and get his appointment book cleared out at the office before he left for Little Rock. His father was not up yet, but he spoke to Lobo and Lanie about what he was planning to do. “It’s the first thing Dad’s ever asked me to do, and I’ve got to go.”

  “What about all your work?” Lobo asked.

  “My partner will just have to take a double load. I’ll make it up to him.”

  “Do you think you can do any good?”

  “I have no idea legally, but I’ve got to give it my best. You two do the praying, and I’ll do the lawyering.”

  Tom finished breakfast and left, and Lanie waited until her father was up. She gave him his breakfast and told him what Tom had said, then she came over and put her arms around him. “We’re going to win this one, Dad, you’ll see.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  A Table in the Wilderness

  Tom Winslow had always liked the early-morning hours. He sometimes called them the cobwebby hours of the day for no real reason that he could think of, except it seemed to fit. He had gotten up before dawn and left Springfield, heading for Tucker State Penitentiary outside of Little Rock. Now as he drove along the almost deserted two-lane road south, he watched the fall color sweep across the land. He always took pleasure in the vigor of the morning changes. For one moment it was almost pitch black with only the stars glittering overhead in the sky. Then over in the ebony east the horizon seemed to split, and a pale violet fissure divided earth and sky as long waves of light began to roll out from the east.

  Draping his right hand over the wheel, he watched for the space of half an hour as the world came alive, bathed in morning freshness, but it was very cold. Yesterday’s Indian summer warmth had soaked out of the earth, and
fall’s chill flowed over the land and lay in the still air, its thin edge cutting against Tom’s face and hand. He had the habit of dramatizing scenes that he expected to happen, sometimes acting them out in his mind almost as if they were flashed on a screen at a movie theater. He did so now, imagining his interview with his relative he had never met, wondering what kind of man Stuart Winslow was. He had gotten little information from his father, for Zach had known little of Stuart, except what he had heard from Stuart’s parents. His mind shifted abruptly as he took a big sweeping curve on the road, outlined by the skeletons of trees now devoid of their fall color that reached upward with bony arms. He thought of his interview he had arranged with Warden Armstrong, and like a good lawyer, he had tried to find something out about the man. “Tough but fair” was the word that he had been able to get from an associate who lived in Little Rock. This was little help, for it would apply to most wardens, at least the tough part.

  After driving for four hours, he stopped at a small café and went in for a big breakfast. He ate a tall stack of pancakes drenched in maple syrup, three large sausage patties that were spicy and bit at his tongue, and a bowl of grits liberally laced with butter, salt, and pepper. With that meal filling his stomach, he wouldn’t need to stop to eat again until he got to Little Rock late in the afternoon. He left the pretty young waitress a quarter tip, which brought a smile to her face, then went out and started the Hudson.

  On his last leg toward the prison, he took pleasure in the automobile. It was a new Hudson Super Six, and the seventy-six horsepower engine was powerful enough to propel the vehicle along at a brisk fifty miles per hour with no trouble, provided he had open road in front of him. He passed most cars, swinging wide to the left, then cutting back in on the narrow two-lane road that was paved for the last part of his journey nearing the capital.

  He found a hotel for the night, ate a hearty meal of fried catfish, turnip greens, and fried potatoes, followed by chess pie, and settled in for the night.