Earning Innocence. Andrew Taylor-Troutman

      Earning Innocence

      A Novel

      Copyright © 2015 Andrew Taylor-Troutman. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      ISBN 13: 978-1-4982-3153-4

      EISBN 13: 978-1-4982-3154-1

      Manufactured in the U.S.A. 12/08/2015

      Epigraph is excerpted from Gilead by Marilynne Robinson. Copyright 2004 by Marilynne Robinson. A paperback edition was published in May 2006 by Picador. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.

      Unless otherwise noted, scripture quotations from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Public Domain).

      Good News Translation® (Today’s English Version, Second Edition), copyright 1992, American Bible Society. All rights reserved.

      New Revised Standard Version Bible®, copyright 1989, Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. All rights reserved.

      The Holy Bible, New International Version®, copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

      For my mom, Anna Troutman

      “A book about relationships & redemption for those who seek to build relationships & who have been redeemed.”

      There is an earned innocence, I believe, which is as much to be honored as the innocence of children.

      —Reverend John Ames from Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead.

      An Author’s Note

      All of the characters, scenes, vignettes, and experiences of Earning Innocence are products of the play of my imagination. And I have had a lot of fun!

      Sometimes these fictional people flirt, sing, laugh, and pray in “real” places, i.e., somewhere a reader might have the opportunity to go and do likewise. In the novel, however, those experiences are not meant to be representational of actual locations or institutions—except in the way, of course, that fiction mirrors life. Specifically, there is a town of Talmage outside Philadelphia—no part of this manuscript was meant to depict this fine locale or its magnanimous people, either in August of the year of Our Lord 2000 or at any other time in history. One final caveat: the opinions expressed here are not intended to represent those of any baseball player, funeral home director, retired military officer, folk singer, Floridian, librarian, Border collie, or pastor of any denomination—except in the way, of course, that fiction speaks our truth for us.

      The novel, however, does intentionally and unabashedly echo my deep, deep abiding and loving appreciation for Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead. In addition, certain characters occasionally make remarks quite similar to something I have heard or read elsewhere. So I wish to acknowledge my debt to Nadia Bolz-Weber for the idea of scars and wounds and to Ann Lamott’s mother’s big black pocketbook. The late David Foster Wallace once uttered a memorable riff on Jesus and the truth setting you free. Richard Lischer played Burnout with his son, Adam. The image of a husband and wife racing from bed to the kitchen each morning is from Elizabeth Dark Wiley’s award-winning essay, “If You Want It To Last” (Ruminate, Issue 35: summer, 2015). I acknowledge and thank Brian Doyle for the hint of a hint of a smile and many other melodious phrases I unconsciously borrowed from drinking great gulps of his writing—see what I did there? And there are images in Earning Innocence that are borrowed from enlightened sources. The story of Jacob and the blessing limping forward is found in the Book of Genesis. The ancient rabbis, who knew the power of this and other stories, compared a parable to a candlewick. The image of a teenage son giving his father a halfway hug is from Brock Clarke’s “Good Night” (The Sun: May, 2015). His short story, not more than a single paragraph, has haunted me in the very best of ways.

      Like Bonnie Wheeler, I am indebted to a group of intelligent truth-telling women who gave of their talent and time in support of my goal: Marjorie Stelmach was my first reader, a mentor who coached, challenged, and cheered; Heather Vacek offered a historian’s perspective as well as deft plot analysis; Claire Asbury Lennox thoroughly and astutely marked up a first draft—I owe you some more red pens; Katherine Bowers, Angela Alaimo O’Donnell, and Mary Howard Shaw each gave sharp insights and welcomed affirmations; Jane Willan breathtakingly cut the entire original opening and helped me to breathe deeply while making down-to-the-wire tweaks, which may well make all the difference. Rocky Supinger is a dude, of course, but was helpful in his delightful Yo-Rocko way. And my beloved, Ginny, is steadfast loving kindness—chesed in the original biblical language. I give thanks for this communion of the mind. My gratitude to each one of you is indescribable.

      This book is dedicated to my mom, Anna Troutman, who once wrote on the inside cover of Paul Harding’s Tinkers: “A book about relationships & redemption for those who seek to build relationships & who have been redeemed.”

      Mom gave me that book with inscription as a birthday present in January, 2011. I have wanted to write a story worthy of that blessing ever since.

      And Sam, Daddy is finished working now. Yes, Daddy is all done. Do you want to read a book?

      August 12th, 2000

      “Jaime, there will be time for that later.”

      Bonnie’s voice is my clarion call. She knows better than anyone why I need to sit here and write. But right now she is pouring bubbly in the other room. Do not over think this one, Wheeler!

      Time to go.

      August 13th, 2000

      Bonnie has gone to bed, but I must record the events of today.

      Today was our twenty-eighth wedding anniversary.

      A remarkable sentence. Married at the age of nineteen, my head full of hair, empty of knowledge. Married with Bonnie’s pregnancy clearly showing, full of promise.

      We toasted each other last night from that bottle of relatively expensive champagne. On this bright morning, I paused to kiss my beloved at the front door before heading to church like I always do. As I turned to walk away, she gave me a playful squeeze through the seat of my dress pants. I had a spring in my step as I traveled the short distance down the gravel road to the sanctuary.

      During August here in eastern Pennsylvania, even the songbirds are drained from the heat, their morning hymns weary and listless. Yet I knew Bonnie would skip into our kitchen, her smile still radiant. Leaving the dirty dishes from last night in the sink, she would sashay toward the pantry, fetching the organic flour, and then open the fridge, collecting farm fresh milk, eggs, butter. While wives of preachers across the country would adorn choir robes or chase kids around the nursery or fix yet another pot of decaf coffee, Bonnie Wheeler would cook for herself and for herself alone. Of course, she has done all of those duties and many more over the years. But today, on our twenty-eighth wedding anniversary, she would whip up crepes Suzette. Not only would she add Grand Marnier liqueur to the batter, she would take extra sips from the bottle. Whisk flour, eggs, and extra sugar together. Stir in milk and vanilla with fresh orange zest. Miles Davis on the stereo, her absolute favorite sacred artist. Pausing in the middle