Knowing in Part
By Adrian Bryant
The Christian life is very much like climbing a hill of ice...
Cease going upward and you will go downward of necessity. You can
never stand still.
- Charles Spurgeon, preacher and theologian
Dawson's aged silver Malibu cruised down the curves and around the potholes of Red
Haven's crumbling highway 427. He hated the road but loved the view overlooking Moore's farm
– the only flat piece of land in Thomas County – during the early sunrise. Beams of dark orange
pierced the tree-line at the far end of the Moore property, creating alternating patterns of dim and
illuminated patches of grass on the field close to the road.
The sun had just peeked over the hills by the time he parked outside Luck's. He stepped
through the tall green doors and attempted to make his way across the dimly lit interior without
running into the crowded chairs and tables. He always felt like he needed a guide with a hardhat
flashlight to lead him through the restaurant, as if it were a cave. The brown-yellow light fixtures that hung from the ceiling weren't worth shit and weren't supposed to, his Dad always said. "If they had real lights," he claimed, "the customers would see the family of roaches underneath the tables."
Dawson's usual booth was easily the worst in the restaurant – a large swatch of off-white upholstery jutted from a leatherless canyon in its center.
"Hey sugar. You're here awfully early," Lindsey shouted from across the restaurant. The
only others around were three camouflaged older men at the bar (an architectural anomaly given
Luck's lack of alcohol) grunting and passing the newspaper back and forth. Lindsey made her
way through the empty array of tables with coffee pot and mug in hand.
"Yeah, the body and the mind united against me this morning and decided sleep wasn't
mine to have," Dawson said. "Aren't you usually the evening crew here?"
Lindsey slammed the mug on the table loud enough to cause Dawson to jump. She was a
skilled server, but gracefulness wasn't her strong suit.
"Rachel's kid started school this year," Lindsey said. "She normally took mornings, but
she wanted to be home with him after school, so I let her swap with me. It ain't the smartest
decision I ever made but it seemed like she needed it."
She poured coffee into his mug. The low light of the useless bulbs and burgeoning
sunrise made the mahogany tables look ebony, matching the coffee that streamed from the pot.
Lindsey filled his mug to the brim and sat across from him.
"So, preacher man was in here last night," she said.
"Is that right?"
"Yep. Seems to think you dropped off the Earth. Says you ain't answered your phone,
your Facebook, nothing." Lindsey's bold, welcoming green eyes stared at Dawson.
"I don't have a lot to say to him, I guess." Dawson gently lifted the mug to his lips for a tiny slurp.
"Well trust me, he's got a lot to say to you." She leaned back and put her strawberry blonde hair in a ponytail. "Hell, I think he thought I was you, the way he droned on and on. He
ain't been able to manage the church without you, is worrying the Devil's got you on the wrong
path. I doubt I ever got to go back to a church after the forty sermons he gave last night."
"Sounds accurate." Dawson took another quick sip and set the mug down with a sigh. "I
don't know how to talk to him. I like Ricky a lot, he's a good guy. I just don't wanna have that
conversation with him. I like my whole dropping off the Earth system."
Lindsey laughed. "Shit, you gotta talk to him sometime. I was happy to serve today, but I
ain't spending the rest of my Luck's tenure passing love notes from him to you." Her freckly
cheeks looked fuller with her hair up, full in a way that an aunt would lovingly pinch them, a
way that emphasized her already expansive smile.
"He's a persistent son of a bitch, but I think he'll let up soon enough. He thinks the food
here is shit anyway, so you shouldn't worry too much about him harassing you again. Or he
thinks it's crap, I should say. Can't associate him with such foul language." Dawson thought he sounded natural enough, but the cuss words still felt heavy on his tongue. He took a full swig of his coffee. His lips tightened as he set the mug back down and swallowed.
"Well I hope he ain't back soon. Motherfucker sassed me for my tattoo. Said I should give it a little brother, maybe a Bible verse or a cross." The top of her wrist was adorned with a shamrock, one she had given herself their senior year of high school behind the band saw in woodshop class.
"Eh, he's just playing around. Tattoos don't bother him much. He's pretty lax compared to most of the people around here." Dawson looked at the sun, finally ascending over the mountain but hiding behind the Red Haven water tower, forming an eclipse and a shadow that stretched over the forest.
"So what's your plan, big shot?"
"I don't know." Dawson shrugged. "Lay low, never get gas at Shell again, see if I can squeeze my way into a job at the call center, deal with old men telling me to eat shit. Whatever
can keep me monetized and away from the Red Haven crew."
"Red Haven Baptist runs this county, honey. Nothing short of packing up and getting out
of dodge is gonna keep you from seeing any of them."
Dawson nodded and sipped at his coffee. The two sat in silence for a moment as Dawson
stared at the sunrise over Lindsey's shoulder.
After a moment she gently slapped the table with her hand. "Well, you gonna get something to eat or just keep playing with your coffee?"
"Yeah, sure." He said. "Get me some French toast sticks and the biggest bottle of maple syrup you have back there. I'm feeling kiddish today."
"You got it. I'll grab the pink baby's bib while I'm at it." Lindsey sprung up and strutted into the kitchen area. Dawson pulled out his phone and saw a new text from Ricky. He locked his phone without opening it and took another drink.
Dawson entered his car after his breakfast and pulled out his phone. Four new messages.
His eyes and thumb lingered over the notification. With a deep sigh he swiped the messages
open. All were from Ricky over the past three days.
Hey man. Just checking in. Been awhile since we talked... Hit me up soon.
Gimme a call when you get the chance. Hope to hear back soon.
The third message, sent while Dawson was at Luck's, was a meme of a boulder-armed
body builder staring at the viewer. Hey bro, do you even lift? The top caption read. The bottom:
... His name on high?
The most recent read simply: Won't you just give me a call?
Dawson plugged his aux cord into his phone, turned on one of Spotify's curated rock
radio stations, and drove to his "thinking spot" in downtown Wilson, Thomas County's county seat.
Dawson hit highway 357 that connected Red Haven and Wilson. It was a bad road with its spaghetti curves and meatball hills, as Mom had liked to call them. He felt embarrassed that he was twenty-two years old and still thought in those silly terms. A picture of Mom sat on the dashboard of his car. She was holding him and his brother Jacob in her lap, Jacob resting his head on her breast while Dawson, chubby cheeked and messy haired, fiddled with a Rubix cube that he would never solve.
"You'll be a good preacher one day," his Mom told him once when he was in elementary school. "I've known it since the day you were born. You looked like baby John the Baptist in all those old paintings, with your hair all curly and bouncy. Your eyes were never fully open, like you were always thinking about something."
When Dawson started freshman year of high school Mom had given him her mother's
Bible. It had a black hardcover, like the ones most churches keep inside their sanctuary. The corners were breaking off and gold lining of the pages had faded away, leaving a dim yellow glow in its place. The margins housed vines of pink and purple notes in cursive he could hardly read. "It's old and it'll fall to pieces by the time you get your church," she had said, "but it'll guide you down that road until you get one." Dawson hadn't even opened it until his high school graduation day, just two months after she died. And now that he had fulfilled and failed his destiny within a year and a half, he didn't know if he'd open it again.
Dawson thought of his Mom as he drove over the hills, examining the steep bank of fallen trees and shallow creeks to his right that winded over and past one another like strands of tangled hair. The woods were like a collage of untrimmed plants and scattered wildlife all
haphazardly pasted and assembled together by a four-year-old – no logic or cohesion to the
composition, just elements slapped together by uncontrollable forces.
Dawson came down the last slope into Wilson and turned left onto the old dirt road that led up to the old high school, above the bank and across from main street, a spot where he could see the whole downtown (all two blocks of it). He pulled up beside what was once the cafeteria, but now was a ravine that the rusty tin roof had started to collapse into. He got out, walked up in front of the building, and sat by the swing set.
From his spot Dawson could see Jimmy Isaacs parading in a circle around the courthouse with his wife Ashley and their two twin boys, each carrying their own signs urging the citizens of Wilson to keep the city dry. Jimmy's sign, just black Sharpie on white poster board, declared "Liquor is Wicked!" Ashley put a bit more care into her presentation, holding a pink poster board with "Ephesians 5:18" stenciled over a collage of two crashed cars and what
Dawson thought was a pair of bleeding stickmen lying underneath them. The boys, who Dawson was pretty sure hadn't even made it to middle school yet, got the shaft and only had small signs reading "Vote no!"
Dawson had talked to Jimmy once a few months ago at a revival at the Lord's Gym. They were both preaching that night and got there early enough to chit chat about the newly announced vote to make Wilson a wet city.
"Y'know," Jimmy had said, "getting alcohol in that town is only gonna sink us further down. We got enough needles on our streets. If they throw in bottles too I'll have to wear my good boots just to walk downtown without cutting my heels." He chuckled at himself.
Dawson had stood motionless. "Well, I guess it's up to the city to vote. I live out in Red
Haven so it won't even appear on my ballot. Democracy sure is great for those who get it."
Jimmy had side-eyed him as a smirk rose on his face, pushing his wrinkles further and
wider across the area of his face.
"You know what Proverbs says about alcohol?" Jimmy's rested in his khaki pants pockets and his back remained upright, his blue eyes shrewd and confident like a prosecutor's.
"I imagine it says a few things," Dawson said.
"Proverbs twenty verse one," Jimmy announced, as if speaking to a congregation that hadn't shown up yet, "proclaims that 'wine is a mocker, and strong drink is raging, and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.'" His squeaky voice boomed back and forth across the walls of the gym's rickety old basketball court.
Dawson shrugged. "Sounds to me like you shouldn't get deceived and you'll be fine."
Jimmy's eyebrows raised slightly and his smirk diminished. "You think saying no to the
Devil is that easy, son?"
"I thought we were talking about alcohol, not the Devil." Dawson started. "And besides,
First Corinthians ten-thirteen says God won't give us a temptation we can't handle, and He won't tempt us without a way to say no. So if we're doing our jobs right and God does His job right I think we'll be just fine with a wet Wilson."
God won't give us a temptation we can't handle. Dawson, now unemployed after ghosting everybody at the church, wasn't quite sure how true that sentiment was anymore. He had just calmly coasted on his charisma all the way to Assistant Pastor within his first year and a half at
Red Haven, unchallenged. But now he saw himself sitting on a hillside watching a man and his family proud in their faith. He couldn't remember what that confidence felt like.
Dawson turned onto the driveway and thought he had seen someone standing on the
porch, but it could've been his Dad stopping by. As pulled in closer he made out Ricky's figure,
short and skinny.
Dawson put the car in park and frantically ran both of his hands through his hair. He
slammed them on the steering wheel, looking ahead as if he would just drive past the house,
thankful his windows were tinted dark enough to shield his panic. He pulled out his phone and
texted Lindsey. Just got home to Ricky sitting on my porch. I'll send updates later. He sent a
grimacing emoji after the text. With a reluctant sigh, he stepped out of the car.
Ricky stuck his hand up stiffly, more like he was stopping traffic than waving. He was
thirty-five but was wrinkled as if he were mid-forties and a short blonde buzzcut sat on his head.
"What's up!" he said.
Dawson stepped over the gravel to the steps. "Ahh, not a lot. I've just been sorta driving
around." He looked at Ricky's squished in face. His eyes were too close together and his mouth
seemed more like a short, accidental line that God mistakenly put on put forgot to erase.
"Why don't we go on inside? I don't mean to invite myself in, but we have some catching
up to do." Ricky gestured toward the door as if it was his house he was inviting Dawson in to.
"Yeah, sure." Dawson unlocked the front door and let Ricky pass through first.
The living room was clean, except for the coffee table covered in books and old mugs
Dawson had been too lazy to wash. The lone couch – a hand-me-down his Dad gave to him
when Dawson moved out – was an ugly hot cocoa brown that was splotched with stains created
by years of abuse by a young Dawson and his wild brother. The crayon red walls were too bright,
but Dawson wasn't committed enough to paint over them.
"Where have you been, man?" Ricky sat down first.
"Y'know, around. I haven't been doing a whole lot, really." Dawson sat next to Ricky and
focused his gaze on a peculiarly fuzzy strand of the carpet that was sticking up higher than the
rest.
"Yeah, well... yeah." Ricky replied.
Dawson's eyes remained fixed on the carpet, but he could feel the vibrations through the
cushions of Ricky turning toward him.
"So, I'm not good at this whole confrontation thing – I don't want it to be a confrontation.
But like, you've just been dodging me. What's going on?"
"Well, I'm not too good at the whole confrontation thing either."
"That's not it, man." Ricky sighed. "You know what's up. I don't, and I think that I ought
to. What is going on with you? Why'd you leave?"
Dawson swallowed, still not moving his head. "I don't know."
Ricky patted Dawson on the shoulder. "What do you mean you don't know? It can't be
nothing. You don't just quit God for nothing."
Another swallow. A mumbled "yeah" in response. Silence.
Ricky didn't mind silence. He sat calmly, probably still looking at Dawson waiting for
him to make the next move. Dawson hands were clasped, fingers interlocked, as his right pointer
finger quickly tapped his left hand.
"What did I do?" Ricky's voice trembled slightly as he asked.
Dawson's slouched back perked up. "You?" he asked, finally turning to look at Ricky's
eyes. They were dry but sorrowful, a desert of concern. "You didn't do anything."
Ricky's brows raised slightly. "So what was it?"
"I um..." Dawson stammered. He looked up to his right at the ceiling tile, the one right
above the fireplace where he saw in the dots and divots a small smiley face that always watched
him when he slept on the couch. "I don't know," he said. His right leg started shaking up and
down, breaking the silent pauses with its nervous rain-like pitter patter.
"I just don't get it. There's too much."
"What does that mean?" Ricky asked.
Dawson sighed. His head swung down as he back slouched into the couch. "I don't
know." A salty tear touched his lips as he spoke.
Ricky sighed. "What made you quit? I mean, you were killing it for so long. We all saw
the fire in you. Where'd all that go?"
Dawson ran his hands through his hair.
"It's just like, it's all a big question mark," Dawson said. "And I gotta just know it all. I
just come to church every Sunday and act like I've got it figured out, spouting verses at people.
But I mean, what am I?" Dawson turned his palms up and shrugged his shoulders.
"What am I? These kids talk about their dementia ridden mamaws or a mom tells me
about her tumor ridden friend and I just what? Say it's all gonna be fine?" His voice was rising,
shaking like a weathervane in the wind. "I don't know that it's gonna be fine! It's probably not
gonna be fine! But I can't fucking say that! I can't say 'Oh, God's will is for you and your dad die
at forty-five.' I can't pretend there's a system."
Dawson's head was locked forward. He was breathing heavily now, loud inhales and
exhales just like he learned as a kid. His leg was pounding now, pitters patters turned into
thumps.
"You remember Ashley who came to Celebrate Recovery a few months ago?" Dawson
looked to Ricky's face for just a moment, then looked immediately down at Ricky's white
Sketchers.
"Yeah. What about her?" Ricky asked.
"She came up to me and told me about a baby she had ten or so years ago. He was born
premature and died from collapsed lungs. He didn't even make it a day. That's what kickstarted
her addiction." Dawson took a long breath. "He didn't even get a fucking chance and she derailed
her life for so long. But who can blame her? Where was divine intervention for her?"
Ricky's hands were resting on his own thighs. His right thumb was bouncing up and
down against his cargo shorts.
"That's heavy stuff." Ricky said. After a pause he started, "Do you... do you think you
still believe?"
Dawson looked at Ricky with tears running down his cheeks. "I don't know. I just, if I
can't know one thing how can I know any of it?"
"You don't have to know it all." Ricky said. His eyes were wide and wet, and his thin brows softly floated over them like clouds. A dim smile created soft dimples in his sunburnt cheeks. "You don't need to get it all. You're young, man. It's fine to be confused, and even angry.
I mean," he chuckled slightly, "I'm always confused and angry. You just gotta ride it out. It all comes in waves, man, these waves of doubt and guilt just push over the boat and you think it's gonna sink. But God won't make you sink."
Dawson looked down at Ricky's shoes again. "Maybe I should sink."
There was a moment of silence before Ricky put his hand on Dawson's knee. "Well,"
Ricky said. "If you start to sink and need a hand, just let me know. I think I've said what I need to say." He started toward the door.
Before he pulled the door open, he looked at Dawson and said "You're good. You're a good, good guy. If you ever need me, now or in twenty years, I'll be around." He pointed up to
the ceiling. "And so will He." Ricky walked out the door.
Dawson lay down on the couch and stared at the ceiling tiles for about ten minutes, his
right foot tapping against the armrest. He pulled out his phone to see two texts from Lindsey
replying to his earlier message about Ricky.
shiiiiiittt. let me know how that goes down.
you still alive or did that short legged bastard eat you for supper?
Dawson replied, Still breathing. I'll call you later. Whole lotta updates to share.
He got up from the couch and walked to his room. He stepped over piles of v-necks and
mismatched Converse to his desk. In the middle cubby to the right was his inherited Bible. He
pulled it out, rubbing his hands over the aged cover. Between the final page and the back cover
was a piece of folded notebook paper he always carried with him.
Dawson unfolded the paper and sat it on the desk.
Mom, I am writing this to you because, well, I don't know. They asked us to write this letter to the person who is the reason we're here. You couldn't technically force me here, I guess, but you kinda did. I never believed you when you said I would be a preacher. I never thought church was for me, too formal and strict and whatever such words you want to ascribe. I still worry about it, sure, but I think maybe you were right. After your funeral this woman named Jenny came up to me. She said I probably didn't remember her – she was right – but that she was your bunkmate when you came here as a kid. That's basically all she told me. I think my funeral face wasn't the most approachable, so after I mumbled something like "cool" she just clutched my hand and said she was praying for me. I don't know why I am here, really. I think just to be with you. I think I am with you, really. The dining hall feels especially you, I think mostly because it a.) smells like pumpkin even though it's June, and b.) because it's where everyone feels the safest. I feel the safest there, just like I think we all felt safe around you.
God's here too. I have at least figured that much out. I think He's gonna do something, pull some trick to get me in His good graces (ha!). I don't know what, but I think it'll work out. I hope you're proud, Mom. Whatever happens will all be for you. Love, Dawson
A picture of her and Dad in high school sat on the left side of the desk. Her brown curls flowed past her cheeks to her shoulders as she hung onto Dad, who at the time was sporting a pretty horrendous mustache. Her head rested on his shoulder and she hugged his arm like it was a stuffed teddy bear.
Whatever happens will all be for you.
"Well hey there," Lindsey said as she answered the phone.
"Hey, you busy?" Dawson asked. He was leaning back in his old worn out desk chair.
"No, I'm just kicking it at the house tonight. How'd the intervention shake out?"
"Oh, it was swell. I just pulled in and he was on the porch. He was kind enough to invite me into my own house, which I really appreciated." Dawson grabbed a pen from his desk and started twirling it between his fingers.
"How thoughtful," Lindsey said.
"Yeah. It could've been worse. He was actually pretty chill. It wasn't near as bad as my nightmares made it out to be."
Dawson paused. "You've never told me how you feel about God."
"Well you never asked," she replied. "I always felt kinda left out, thought you weren't too concerned with my eternity." She chuckled.
"I'm asking now. What's your status?" Dawson stopped the pen in between his thumb and
forefinger.
Lindsey's staticky sigh floated through the phone. "I don't think too much about God. I
just bounce along, washing dishes, taking names, getting paid. I guess He could intervene in that
routine but I don't imagine He's got anything out for me."
Dawson smiled. "No, I don't think He does." He continued twirling the pen. "Are you a
believer, as us holy ones would say?"
Lindsey snorted. "I don't think anyone who would cuss in my fine restaurant would be
counted as holy. Don't think I didn't notice you trying to be cool."
"Oh come on," Dawson leaned up in his chair and tapped the pen against the desk like a
late night talk show host. "Are you or not?"
There was a slight pause. "I think God's real for the folks that need Him to be."
Dawson let the answer linger. He tapped the pen against the table repeatedly.
"That's a mighty fine answer, honestly."
"I know," Lindsey said proudly. "I might be coming for your old job if you think Ricky
could stand a lady trailing his ass."
Dawson leaned back and sat the pen down. "Maybe. I'll send in a letter of
recommendation. He hasn't damned me to Hell yet so maybe he'll take it seriously."
"That sounds good to me." He could hear Lindsey's smile in her voice. "I'm glad you
called, but I've got to run over to Mom's for dinner and I'll lose service as soon as I step out my front door. Keep me posted on my future job status as Misses Preacher."
"Will do," Dawson said. "Tell your mom I said hi and thanks for last night."
Lindsey laughed. "First you're cussing and now you're dropping 'your mom' jokes? Shit, maybe it's good you left the church."
"I agree. I can finally make the dumb high school jokes I've denied myself for years in the name of the Lord." Dawson chuckled. "Enjoy your dinner, pal."
Dawson hung up sat the phone down on his desk. He was leaning back in his chair, shoulders relaxed and hands clasped across his chest. A slow smile crept across his face as he closed his eyes.
After a few minutes of leisure, he stood up to go to the kitchen, but his eyes moved around his desk and locked on to the Bible. He picked it up, looked to the ceiling, and flipped it open to a random page, moving his fingers around the page until something told him to stop.
When he looked back down his finger was on 1 Corinthians 13:8.
8Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. 9 For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. 10 But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. 11 When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. 12 For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. In the margins, the pink letters of an old pen declared Things will all eventually make sense.
Dawson looked up at Mom and Dad's picture. He picked up the pen from the desk and drew and arrow pointing down below the marginal comment. Under the arrow scrawled I'm still waiting.
Dawson put the letter, still sitting on the desk, back into the Bible and closed it. He placed the Bible back in the cubby, unsure if he ever needed to open it again.