No Love For The Villain - Chapter 29
She retied the cloth bundle tightly. As if she had never opened it, as if she had never coveted anything the man had given her, she bound it securely.
She hid the paints deep inside the wardrobe. In the spot where her father’s button had been hidden, now the man’s paints and coat remained.
As Sierra was about to gather and discard the scattered drawing pieces from the desk, the phone number caught her eye. Her gaze, lingering on the numbers, held a trace of reluctance.
She softly recited his phone number, like memorizing a Bible verse. She even imagined going to the phone, dialing the number, and calling him.
She imagined the man’s voice saying ‘Hello,’ and thought about how she would respond. In her imagination, she called him several times. She wasn’t dragged away by the Pastor, nor was she punished.
The sound of the door opening shattered her futile imaginings.
Startled, Sierra shoved all the torn drawing pieces into the trash bin. Including the number he had left.
Mrs. Miles was standing at the doorway. She was neatly dressed, wearing gloves—an outfit for going to church.
“You’re awake.”
Mrs. Miles spoke as if nothing had happened during the night. But her face was shadowed, like someone who hadn’t slept properly.
Perhaps she hadn’t been able to sleep the entire time Eli was in the house, and had only come after seeing him leave.
“We mustn’t be late for Sunday service. Everyone is… you…”
At the moment their eyes met, Mrs. Miles’s voice grew thin. Her distorted eyes suddenly revealed a jumble of emotions—anxiety, contempt, fear.
But Mrs. Miles quickly corrected her expression. She pulled the corners of her mouth upward into a smile. It was the benevolent smile of a mother.
“They’re waiting for you. The Pastor, Daniel… everyone.”
She spoke as if those waiting were a family that would embrace even a prodigal.
Sierra changed her clothes. She pulled down the short sleeves of her old coat. She headed towards the doorway where Mrs. Miles waited.
The warm food the man had left, the phone number, his coat and paints—she closed the door, leaving all of it behind.
As she descended the stairs, the waiting Daniel held out his hand. His fever gone, his face had returned to that of a good son.
In the presence of this man who seemed like the savior of a parentless girl, Sierra swallowed her breath. Holding her breath and staying silent, she took his hand. Just as she always had.
***
The people who had come to church pressed their lips together and sang hymns. Pastor Miles preached about love and obedience.
“Wives, submit to your husbands; husbands, love your wives; children, obey your parents. Only that is the family that pleases our Father in heaven.”
The organ played solemn sounds, following the set score precisely. Without an inch of error, without ever recklessly breaking free from the sheet music.
It was a peaceful Sunday where everything was in its proper place.
“A wife is a fruitful vine, children are like young olive trees. The fruit of the vine signifies love. If family members do not love each other, whom will they love? Let us learn from and follow the profound love of our Father in heaven and bestow it upon our families.”
Sierra’s eyes met the Pastor’s. Daniel, sitting next to her, tightly grasped her hand. Preaching and holding on, trying to glue the misplaced piece back into its proper place.
But Sierra found herself recalling the music she heard in the speeding car. She couldn’t forget the piano performance that freely, heartily strayed from the score. The man’s face she had drawn all night, no matter how much she tore it up, was redrawn in her mind.
That man was a severe fever. Sierra was suffering from an illness that even fever reducers couldn’t cure.
“Let us pray.”
Pastor Miles concluded his sermon. Everyone closed their eyes and clasped their hands. But Sierra sat with her eyes wide open.
Beyond the Pastor’s shoulder, she could see the cross.
“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life…”
The punishment of being nailed had become a symbol of salvation. It was cruel. The only thing that could truly save the bound person was coming down from the cross. But because people were moved by his suffering, there was no way down.
Everyone prayed sorrowfully for help, each in their own way, but the body with palms nailed was powerless, unable to help anyone. So, Sierra did not add her own prayer—a prayer for help he couldn’t give—to that skeletal savior.
No matter how much she prayed, her dead father did not come back to life. No matter how much she prayed, the hands and feet bound to Daniel did not come free.
Among the people whispering muted prayers, Sierra alone kept watch over the cross. She thought of the final words of the saint who could not come down from the cross.
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
What if Satan, who tempted the saint, had returned and told him to forsake the Father? What if he had told him not to die, but to live?
Sierra imagined it. The saint, descending from the cross, running across the earth in joy with freed feet. As her heart swelled imagining an impossibility, Daniel’s call cut through her thoughts.
“Sierra. I think you have a fever. Let’s step out for a moment.”
Daniel pulled Sierra by the hand. Held by Daniel, Sierra walked through the aisle between the long benches on either side.
When they reached the head pastor’s office, Daniel poured water into a glass and handed it to her. The cold glass was pressed into her palm until it tingled.
“Drink this, you’ll feel better.”
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