The broken tooth, thought David. The cap just slightly whiter than the other teeth. A reminder of faith for anyone who had heard this story.

Brilliant.

Whitbrend looked down at the pulpit again. David admired this, too. What at first had seemed evasive now seemed humble. Darren Whitbrend was not asking the congregation to bear his burden. He was showing them how it was done. Alone. Through the making of scars. Through the capping of teeth broken by prayer.

The young minister looked out at the congregation.

He said that after the funeral he made the God he’d never known an offer.

“I offered my life and flesh and soul to Him,” said Whitbrend, “if He would do one thing. That night I took the revolver from my father’s drawer.”

He walked outside and down by the river. He popped the cylinder and removed all six cartridges. Threw one into the water. It didn’t make a sound. Reloaded the other five and spun the cylinder hard, once. He closed it. And told the God he’d never known to save him only if he could know Him. And to take him if he could not. Then he sat down and pulled the trigger.

David heard the blood surging in his ears. Heard the dread and surprise ripple through his chapel, then the twitter of realization.

“And I ask all of you,” said Whitbrend, “to let me share Him with you.”

Whitbrend opened his arms to the believers and smiled. David could see the cap from here. Almost took his breath away.

David’s fever broke halfway through the closing prayer. While Whitbrend talked softly about peace beyond understanding, the tormented muscles of David’s stomach relaxed and the ache departed from his bones. The demons in his mind were quiet. He felt his strength begin to return, the strength to love and care and offer. He knew he would soon have a partner to help him guide the future of this congregation. God would help him through this other thing. Please, God, help me through this. It’s the only thing I’ve ever asked that’s all for me.

The closing hymn was a thundering, joyful roar of the spirit.

THAT NIGHT they all had dinner at Max and Monika’s home in the orange grove in Tustin. David and Barbara and the kids, Nick and Katy and theirs, Andy and Teresa.

David sat at one end of the long table, his father at the other. Everyone held hands while David said grace. He had never said a grace of more than one minute in his life but this night David took almost five. Wandered a little, because he hadn’t thought about it ahead of time. Mentioned every person at the table. And Clay. Simple thanks, but so much to be thankful for.

When he opened his eyes David looked at every person and thought a secret prayer that they would all be around this table, just like this, many times in the years ahead.

NICK LISTENED to the grace. One hand in Katy’s and one in Stevie’s. Opened one eye and spied up and down the table. Been doing that since he was a kid, and wouldn’t you know it, he caught Willie pulling the same stunt. Willie shut his eye and Nick almost smiled.

But he shared David’s thankfulness and felt the grace of God hovering around them. It was a good family. Even without Clay it was still good. Everybody had their problems but that was human nature. That was life.

Nick paid extra attention at the “watch over us” part. Really tried to make his heart open up and let God know he was needing something. He and Lobdell would be in Mexico by this time tomorrow. Katy’s hand squeezed his hard. Her little brother had been beaten and robbed down there when Katy was nineteen and she’d never traveled there again. Hated the place. Hated that Nick had to go. But understood.

When he opened his eyes Nick looked again at every person and believed in his uneasy heart that this was the last time they would all be together.

ANDY LET David’s words fall down on him like a warm rain. He didn’t personally think that God heard or responded to prayers, but who really knew? It was nice to believe for a minute or two. He felt Teresa’s hand and Wendy’s hand. Both soft and warm, one grown and one growing. He thought of the way the years run through everyone like a big river. Of the way we hang on to our little crafts and try to get to wherever it is we think we’re going. Sometimes flail and cough and spit up the river water, too. How some get a long journey and some get what Clay and Janelle got and some don’t even get that much. Which meant the people still here, still on the river, really should be thankful for it.

When he opened his eyes Andy looked at every person at the table and knew he was lucky to be there among them.

30

NICK STEERED THE RED ROCKET south on I-5 while Lobdell smoked a cigarette and looked out at the new nuclear power plant at San Onofre.

The Country Squire had two surfboards strapped to the top and food and water and camping gear in the back. Nick and Lobdell had tried to dress more like surfers than cops but Nick figured they just looked like cops in sandals. They couldn’t grow out their hair much in three days. Nick hadn’t shaved and Lobdell said he hadn’t used any Vitalis. Nick almost smiled when he first saw Lucky’s small white feet.

“Look at that,” said Lobdell.

There was a Camp Pendleton Marine Corps helicopter low over the water on exercise, dangling a single soldier by a long rope, sea spray flying, blades flashing in the sun. Eighteen thousand dead, thought Nick. Clay killed near a village. Body at Angel’s Lawn now but like he was never here. What bothered Nick wasn’t that people died but that they were forgotten. Made him shudder if he thought about it so he didn’t. But he still couldn’t shake the feeling he’d had during David’s prayer last night.

In San Ysidro they got Oscar Padilla car insurance and lunch. Lobdell wanted Sambo’s for the last American food they’d get for a day or two. Maybe longer. Couldn’t find one, though, so they settled on Denny’s. Fine with Nick, who looked out the darkened windows at the bustling border town. Kept an eye on the Country Squire. Quite a load of valuables hidden down in it, under all the surf and camp gear. A short man bent by a shoulderload of serapes shuffled across the parking lot.

Once across Nick got into the TJ way of driving. Plenty of horn work and don’t slow down or move over unless you have to. They honked and lurched through downtown, past the shopwindows of dresses and watches and jewelry and drawn chickens hanging with the feet still on. A taxi zoomed by on their right, almost picked off a guy jumping onto the curb. Nick watched an ancient Chevrolet pass with a rooftop loudspeaker blaring out the virtues of Fanta soft drink.

“Even smells different down here,” said Lobdell. Told Nick about this bar named the Blue Fox, had live donkey shows. Never been to one and had no interest but knew some guys who had.

Then up the grade out of Tijuana, past the shantytowns in the hills, past the bullring and the hospitals for cancer cures to the coast road overlooking the brown rock cliffs and the deep roiling sea.

Nick looked out at the trash fires burning and the “No Basura” signs. A pack of skinny, big-eared dogs trotted along through the fires. Nick slowed for two Tijuana cop cars off to the right, lights flashing, four tan-uniformed cops standing over a body in the gutter. Around the bend a mountain of worn-out tires exhaled a tornado of black smoke that rose and spread out over the ocean in the faint offshore breeze.

“When the hippies complain about America, I tell ’em to come down here and look at this place,” said Lobdell.

Nick watched a big rig barrel down the highway toward them, hoped the guy’s brakes were decent. Eased the Red Rocket as far to the right as he could but the truck kept drifting over. No shoulder. A cliff to the right. Nick felt the gravel under his right-side tires. His forearms locked and his car was swallowed by shadow, steel rushing past the windows, slam of wind and diesel roar, and Nick could feel how really light the Country Squire was, could feel it skittering on the gravel, wondered if the surfboards were about to tear off. Then a burst of blue sky and brown cliff as the curve of asphalt carried him into the next pass.