This chapter is a bit longer. I apologize. But I didn't think it long enough to split.

In the last part Ben moved to Sebastopol to work at Luther Burbank’s Golden Ridge Farm. He had not yet been restored to the joy of the Lord, or to his calling.

^^^^^^^^

Ben lingered on Luther’s thank you. For some reason he couldn’t get the expression out of his mind. He allowed his mind free reign through the scriptures he’d stored away in his soul.

Ben finally realized that a spirit of contrition and remorse had just about consumed him ever since his escape from prison. He thought through the time that he’d dealt with the inmate with a haughty spirit. And he thought of the prophet Isaiah, who God told that He lives in the soul of the contrite – and would revive them.

He remembered Habakkuk. Ben laughed at himself. “Who remembers Habakkuk?” Shaking his head, he told himself Habakkuk’s story of the non-budding fig tree, and the grape-less vines, and failed crops. “Oh Lord,” Ben cried. “My fig tree doesn’t bloom and my vines are without grapes. Forgive me, Jesus.”

James’ words popped into his consciousness: Consider it joy when your trials test your faith and produce perseverance… that you may be pure and complete.

Ben took the remainder of the morning off, retreating to his room where he prayed with thanksgiving and rejoicing.

+++

“Hey Ben!” Luther rode his saddle horse rather than bring his carriage, as was his custom. He withdrew a newspaper from his saddlebag before dismounting.

Ben led the horse away from the fruit trees before taking the offered newspaper.

“Your lawyer won the mayorship last year. I told you I didn’t keep up. Well, here. Read this. He had your case re-opened.”

Ben took the paper which was opened and folded such that the story Luther wanted him to read was obvious. LOCAL STREET PREACHER EXONERATED was the headline. The article went on to say that with Mayor Henry Halleck’s reconstruction of the police department, and his perseverance into the Persons case, it was discovered that there had been a plot to charge Persons with murder over the street tussle that resulted in a man’s death. One of the policemen recanted, admitting that the deceased and his partners had started the altercation. The court reversed Ben Persons’ conviction, even though his appeal after trial had been denied. The state charges against Persons for prison escape had been dropped.

“Well, Ben? Guess you can go to town and whoop it up?”

Ben looked at Luther with obvious gratitude. “Think I’ll whoop it up right here.” He pointed to his chest, pinching back tears of joy.

“Well then, what’ll it be. How about some wine? An entire bottle?”

“Work!” Ben shouted. “Come look.”

Ben had finished assembly of a Sears and Roebuck mail order greenhouse just an hour before Luther rode up.

“This is terrific! We just need shelving. You won’t have time for that. We need to get the rest of the trees planted this month. What I’ll do is take some measurements and describe what we need at the lumber yard. They have idle time in the winter anyway. They’ll be happy to deliver the materials and build some tables and shelves. Yes! That’s what we’ll do.”

As Luther prepared to ride back to Santa Rosa, Ben reached for the horse’s bridle. “Thank you, Luther. Thank you.”

Smiling, Luther leaned down and spoke quietly. “I’m just the paperboy, Ben. Somebody else did all the work.”

Ben smiled and nodded.

+++

Ben walked to town, his first travel out of Sebastopol since he learned that he was a free man. He was too early for the service at the first church he passed, but was on time for Sunday School classes at the next. He went inside and took a seat. The lesson was hackneyed, but Ben didn’t mind. The Holy Spirit ministered to him.

“Brother, would you care to stand and say something?” The preacher was about to close his sermon on sanctification, dryly delivered. Ben didn’t mind, he’d been in God’s presence.

Taken by surprise, Ben at first started to decline, but stood when he felt the tug of the Holy Spirit much as he’d lived his life before his conviction. “Jesus loves you. And he forgives you. But unless we accept that forgiveness, grab hold of it, and latch on to it as if it’s precious gold …” He reached out his hand, grasping and closing his fist. He pulled his hand into his chest as he said precious gold. “We must accept his forgiveness. And then he will consecrate us for his special use and purpose.” He sat down to absolute silence.

A moment later the pastor simply began, “Brothers and sisters …’

There was a wailing sob, as if a dam burst suddenly, it was a female’s voice, Ben thought. From somewhere to his left on the opposite side of the middle aisle, and behind him. Ben instinctively rose and squirmed his way through people to get close enough to lay his hand on her head, as she mumbled under her breath while crying.

“Bless her, Jesus. Lift her up, O God. Cause your child to know without doubt that she is forgiven. That you cast it as far as the east is from the west into the sea of forgetfulness. Lord, don’t let Satan ever again hold out something that has been forgiven.”

Opening his eyes, Ben saw that everyone around her was wide-eyed with wonder. Gradually people began to quietly get up and walk from the sanctuary.

When Ben reached the door to leave, an older man reached out his hand. Gripping Ben’s with an iron-like grip, he asked, “Would you be so kind as to take dinner with us?”

Ben smiled and nodded yes, following the man around the church, walking three blocks in silence, turning a street corner and walking two more blocks before the man pointed to a house.

Dinner will be just a little while. The Missus and my daughter will be a few more minutes, I expect. Can I get you anything?”

“Water?” Ben asked.

“I’m Reginald,” the man said as he passed through a door to the kitchen.

“Ben,” Ben said loud enough for him to hear.

Reginald returned with a cup of water that Ben downed in one gulp.

“More?”

“Please, I walked in from Sebastopol this morning. Guess I got parched.”

“Sebastopol! I don’t blame you. Here, come on into the kitchen and get your fill.”

When Ben entered, he saw two women working together efficiently.

“Oh!” the older of the two said as if startled.

“Just need some more water,” Reginald said. “This is my wife, Rachel, and my daughter, Beth.”

Beth turned to face Ben; her head tucked low. She did a sort of curtsey, a pot and a utensil occupying her hands and preventing her from a hand shake. It was the young woman from church who had needed prayer.

“Pleased to meet you. Thank you for asking me to dinner.” Ben set the cup down, forgetting about more water.

“Just need to heat the corn and potatoes and mash ‘em up while Beth makes the gravy,” Rachel said. “Hope you don’t mind the ham cold, Mister … Ben. It’s smoked; so it’s good. It’s just a lot faster getting’ Sunday dinner on the table served cold.”

“Cold is fine, Mrs. …”

“Kline,” she answered. “But just call me Rachel.”

“Daddy, would you tell him? I, I don’t think we could eat with it hanging out there.”

Reginald nodded and waved Ben to follow him back to the room where they received guests. Reginald did not modulate his voice. Ben knew that the women could hear his every word.

“Beth married a farm boy. They had a little place east, over by Glen Ellen, grape country over toward …

“Daddy!”

“Oh yeah, well. Beth had a baby, a little girl. She was … wasn’t born right.”

Reginald clamped his jaws, blinking back tears.

“Deformed?” Ben asked softly.

 Reginald nodded wildly. “She was. It was bad. Well, Beth’s husband, he ran off. The next anybody heard from him he’d got a divorce. Rachel, she stayed with Beth. I had to go to work. Beth, she rocked that baby ‘til the end, right through all that cryin’, Rachel said. Then Rachel and Beth came back here together.”

Ben didn’t say anything. They sat in silence until called to dinner.

Ben was afraid to look at Beth, but afraid not to. He did his best to engage in polite conversation, offering bits of his history, where he was from, how he got to Santa Rosa, what he did for a living.

Dinner finally finished, Rachel suggested that Beth take Ben out back to the porch swing, that Reginald could help with dishes for once, and to be sure to put on a sweater; there was a chill in the air.

Beth was nice to look at: all the regular features in the right places. Auburn hair neatly presented with just a little curl. She certainly wasn’t a Hannah, or even a Livvy, but she was easy to look at, nevertheless. Ben supposed she was his age, maybe a year or so older. She was tall enough to look him in the eye without lifting her head.

Once seated and the swing motion figured out between them, Beth turned sufficiently to see Ben. “Your story left a lot of holes,” she said.

Ben smiled and nodded.

“So did mine. The baby didn’t have a skull, among other issues. And I rocked her until she died.”

“Beth, that sounds commendable. Surely you didn’t blame yourself for her condition?”

“No. I didn’t. I don’t know what caused that. But the rocking … That’s all I did. I … I didn’t feed her. It took two days, sitting there in that rocker.” Beth gasped, choking back a sob.

Without thought, Ben drew her into his arms, wrapping her into himself, rubbing her back.

“And you’ve borne, carried that guilt …”

“For nearly five years … until today. Ben you can’t know the burden that’s lifted.”

“I can, Beth. I can.”

“Would you care to tell me?”

Ben told her of the fight, and the trial, conviction, and escape from prison. Then of the news of his freedom.

Beth laughed modestly. Looking at him, she said, “Well, aren’t we a pair?”

Ever so quickly, Beth leaned in and kissed Ben a peck on his cheek. Hopping up from the swing, she extended her hand. “Come on. Let’s share your story with the folks. The whole story.”

Ben did, his heart completely unburdened.