Read Online The Road to Mercy by Kathy Harris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kathy Harris
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would he even find comfort for himself?
Beth answered after the first ring. “I’m so glad you called me right back. Dr. Myers said my pregnancy could be ectopic.” Her words came in a torrent, and then she paused. “I’m afraid this is all my fault.”
“How could any of this be your fault, honey?” Josh feared that paranoia could be another side effect of the painkillers Beth was taking. “You’re doing the best you can. . . .”
“But our baby could be in trouble already, and not even have a chance.” She whispered the words into the phone, as if saying them out loud would seal the child’s fate. “I-I . . .” She began to cry. “It’s my fault, and I don’t know what I can do.”
The evening meal at the hall in Milwaukee reminded Josh of his mother’s cooking. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, white gravy with just enough black pepper and grease cooked into it, and buttery, homemade yeast rolls.
Catering was provided by someone different in every city. Each show promoter hired a local company. Most days they served spicy ethnic food, dried out hamburgers, or cardboard chicken. A lot of cardboard chicken, which was usually accompanied by instant mashed potatoes and a broccoli medley. Josh winced at the thought. He hated broccoli.
But meals today were courtesy of a local church. At the moment, Josh could think of no better mission work than to serve good food to a bunch of home cooking–starved musicians who needed the comfort. In reality, the show promoter had traded catering for a section of seats in the back of the auditorium.
Josh helped himself to seconds of the fried chicken and grabbed a piece of chocolate cake before sitting down with his road manager, Ryan Majors. Ryan rarely took time to eat crew meals with the rest of the band. Instead, he ate on the run or very little at all—one reason for his lean physique. But Josh had asked Ryan to join him tonight for a conversation.
“I need your help.” Josh wiped his face with a paper napkin.
Ryan listened while picking at his salad. “Is it just me, or is this meal the worst we’ve had in a while?” He scowled. Evidently boys from Arizona didn’t grow up on fried chicken.
“I need your help.” Josh said again. “I need to free up some personal time. I’m dealing with Beth’s insurance paperwork and medical bills.”
Ryan nodded but never looked up.
“I’m putting you in charge of the merchandise accounting. Mitch will report directly to you, and you’ll report to me.”
This time he got his road manager’s full attention. Ryan’s blue eyes sparkled, the reaction Josh had expected. Ryan thrived on responsibility. No doubt he also hoped his new duties would add pay to an already well-padded salary.
“I’ll be upfront with you, man. I can’t pay you extra. I’m operating on a tight budget. But I promise I won’t leave the job on you forever.”
Ryan nodded with a little less enthusiasm. He popped a cherry tomato into his mouth. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to Mitch. We’ll go over everything on the bus in the morning.”
“Works for me.” Ryan snatched his fedora from the tabletop, stood up, and collected his salad plate and utensils. “See you in a while. I have to pick up the performance check.”
Josh lingered over dessert and reconsidered his decision. Giving up control of merchandise accounting didn’t feel right. But he had no option. He had to give up some of his responsibilities. Merchandising could be delegated.
His personal issues could not.
12
July 12, 1975
Isaac shifted from one foot to the other as he contemplated the risk of his actions. Grandfather wouldn’t be home for another hour, and Mama Ruth had gone to the grocer’s. If he had the courage, he had the time.
He pressed his nose to the thick glass pane of the dining room window to check again. No one was in sight. No time to linger. He crossed the room to the gigantic breakfront that anchored the sidewall of
Beth answered after the first ring. “I’m so glad you called me right back. Dr. Myers said my pregnancy could be ectopic.” Her words came in a torrent, and then she paused. “I’m afraid this is all my fault.”
“How could any of this be your fault, honey?” Josh feared that paranoia could be another side effect of the painkillers Beth was taking. “You’re doing the best you can. . . .”
“But our baby could be in trouble already, and not even have a chance.” She whispered the words into the phone, as if saying them out loud would seal the child’s fate. “I-I . . .” She began to cry. “It’s my fault, and I don’t know what I can do.”
The evening meal at the hall in Milwaukee reminded Josh of his mother’s cooking. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, white gravy with just enough black pepper and grease cooked into it, and buttery, homemade yeast rolls.
Catering was provided by someone different in every city. Each show promoter hired a local company. Most days they served spicy ethnic food, dried out hamburgers, or cardboard chicken. A lot of cardboard chicken, which was usually accompanied by instant mashed potatoes and a broccoli medley. Josh winced at the thought. He hated broccoli.
But meals today were courtesy of a local church. At the moment, Josh could think of no better mission work than to serve good food to a bunch of home cooking–starved musicians who needed the comfort. In reality, the show promoter had traded catering for a section of seats in the back of the auditorium.
Josh helped himself to seconds of the fried chicken and grabbed a piece of chocolate cake before sitting down with his road manager, Ryan Majors. Ryan rarely took time to eat crew meals with the rest of the band. Instead, he ate on the run or very little at all—one reason for his lean physique. But Josh had asked Ryan to join him tonight for a conversation.
“I need your help.” Josh wiped his face with a paper napkin.
Ryan listened while picking at his salad. “Is it just me, or is this meal the worst we’ve had in a while?” He scowled. Evidently boys from Arizona didn’t grow up on fried chicken.
“I need your help.” Josh said again. “I need to free up some personal time. I’m dealing with Beth’s insurance paperwork and medical bills.”
Ryan nodded but never looked up.
“I’m putting you in charge of the merchandise accounting. Mitch will report directly to you, and you’ll report to me.”
This time he got his road manager’s full attention. Ryan’s blue eyes sparkled, the reaction Josh had expected. Ryan thrived on responsibility. No doubt he also hoped his new duties would add pay to an already well-padded salary.
“I’ll be upfront with you, man. I can’t pay you extra. I’m operating on a tight budget. But I promise I won’t leave the job on you forever.”
Ryan nodded with a little less enthusiasm. He popped a cherry tomato into his mouth. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to Mitch. We’ll go over everything on the bus in the morning.”
“Works for me.” Ryan snatched his fedora from the tabletop, stood up, and collected his salad plate and utensils. “See you in a while. I have to pick up the performance check.”
Josh lingered over dessert and reconsidered his decision. Giving up control of merchandise accounting didn’t feel right. But he had no option. He had to give up some of his responsibilities. Merchandising could be delegated.
His personal issues could not.
12
July 12, 1975
Isaac shifted from one foot to the other as he contemplated the risk of his actions. Grandfather wouldn’t be home for another hour, and Mama Ruth had gone to the grocer’s. If he had the courage, he had the time.
He pressed his nose to the thick glass pane of the dining room window to check again. No one was in sight. No time to linger. He crossed the room to the gigantic breakfront that anchored the sidewall of
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