Stained Glass

By Bonner Litchfield

Mike Saunders drives a nice car. Makes good money. Enjoys flexible work hours. Not bad for a high school student.

 

Ten years earlier, Mike and his older sister vegged in front of the TV. Dad came home early. Mom cooked dinner instead of hitting a drive-through.

 

That evening ripped the Saunders family apart. And started Mike on his current path with Salvation Covenant.

 

A propulsive young adult novel full of surprises, thrills, and humor, "Stained Glass" delivers major second chance vibes, heartbreaking regret, and enduring hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Dawg Publishing
• Release date: Dec 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223125402

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

MAY 2008

I was too young to understand what happened the day everything changed. If we’d been on a reality show, they’d have replayed that scene on every network, twenty-four-seven.

It was the last day of school, the end of second grade. Everything was weird and slow. But I got that. I was a seven-year-old kid, not a retard. I already knew from kindergarten and first grade that the end of school meant a lull. Still, it was a big change, not rushing off to a game or practice. All the hurrying just vanished, as if all we ever did was sit around and watch TV.

Jenny, of course, took over the remote. She was starting seventh grade next year. Junior high school. Big, big deal. Something else to elevate her above me in her own deluded mind. Not that I challenged her for the remote. She was six inches taller than I was and wiry as hell for a girl. Back then, she’d wrestle me down in two seconds flat. Not a pretty sight from my perspective.

She was texting one of her friends, not even watching that stupid talk show she had on, but she wasn’t about to let me change channels. Some hot boy band was coming on any second, according to her. Even with a marathon of commercials going. But I sat there anyway, not knowing what to do with myself. I mean, I was used to changing into something and getting driven somewhere.

I played soccer and T-ball, and sometimes they overlapped. Even with no goalies or pitchers, those screaming parents acted as if we were fighting to the death in an arena, like Hunger Games. Some of them got really nasty. Jenny did swimming and dance. And with Mom doing all the driving, Jenny went to my stuff, and I went to hers. I think I needed that pool smell to do homework.

Jenny and I may have been vegetating for a change, but Mom was still Mom. She never relaxed. Ever. She was rushing in and out of the kitchen, brushing the hair out of her eyes, and talking in the hurried tone she got when multitasking. Thinking back on it, that was the first time I’d ever seen her wear an apron. Mom’s cooking entailed ordering pizza or driving through McDonalds in those days.

I really didn’t know what to think when she called Jenny to help her set the dining room table. Jenny wasn’t thrilled—that’s for sure. We’d only eaten there once that I could remember during my short life at that time. A Thanksgiving with a lot of arguing and Mom saying, Never again. Thanksgiving was always at Aunt Kate’s after that. And we never used the dining room again, until that day. It was just a room we never went in, like the attic or the storage shed out back. We ate on stools at the kitchen counter or took plates into the den. Maybe never again meant having the whole family over, or Mom changing her mind. But that never happened—I can vouch for that.

I remember wondering what Dad was doing home. He usually showed up for my games and left at the halfway point. Same with Jenny and her stuff. He tousled my hair and seemed overly glad to see me.

You been helping your mom with dinner, Mike?

How come we’re eating in there? I asked, there meaning the dining room.

Quality time; family time. I remember him looking at his watch.

Are we going to eat there all the time? I asked.

What? I doubt it. Maybe if we weren’t so busy. He clicked to the news.

Then, repeating questions in annoying kid fashion: How come we’re eating there tonight?

Dad dove on the couch and started tickling. He’d name a restaurant and poke my ribs, the most ticklish spot on my body. Because we’re sick of McDonalds … and Pizza Hut … and Chinese takeout …

How come? I’d caught my breath, but I was still giggling.

How come what?

How come we’re—

How come you’re so full of questions? He tossed a couch pillow at me.

When do we eat? I giggled, catching it and tossing it back.

Dad set the pillow on the couch and turned the clowning down a notch. When your mom calls us, that’s when.

He sat and talked to me while we waited. OK, he listened to me ramble about playing dodge ball instead of having class on the last day of school. He grinned the whole time, really enjoying himself. Usually, he didn’t have time to hang out and chat. And never just the two of us. I remember thinking this was way cooler than any last day of school, for me anyway. Of course, this was before I’d outgrown childhood delusions.

When Mom called us, he snapped back into being a parent. He made sure I washed my hands and thought combing my hair would be a good idea. Seeing as I had little more than a crewcut, that seemed pointless. I humored him, though. It was that kind of day.

All of us were relaxed at the dinner table except Mom. She had a pie in the oven, and you’d think she was trying to split atoms, the way she kept running into the kitchen to check on it. I figured Jenny would be pissed that I got to hang with Dad while Mom put her to work. Being the baby did have its perks sometimes. But she’d acted like she enjoyed it. Unusual for her to like chore-related activity.

When I think back, I can still taste the food. A tender pork roast with potatoes. So good that I was scarfing down everything in front of me—even the carrots, which I normally hated. It was awesome. Worth sitting at a table with a napkin in your lap.

I remember Mom coming out of the kitchen and the doorbell ringing.

That’s all, folks. End of act one. Time to drop the curtain, change the scenery, and see what happens next.

Mom didn’t even blink.

I’ll get it, she said. And it’s the last I saw of that mom. Hustling down the hall, leaving Dad, Jenny, and me at the dinner table.

Jenny let out this huge scream, and I almost choked on a roll I’d shoved in my mouth. Dad hadn’t surprise-tickled my sister in forever. He laughed like a kid, then had to stop me from getting into the act. His face kinda changed when a man’s voice at the door asked for him. He pushed away from the table and went to see what was up.

I waited for all of two seconds to follow him and snoop. I got on my hands and knees and poked my head into the hallway.

Jenny grunted, Get a life. But I pretended not to hear her.

Mom was talking to a big, wide-shouldered man at the door. He had that polite frown I’d seen teachers and coaches get with asshole parents. I could see the bulge in his eyes, like he was straining to hold something back. Mom brushed the hair out of her face and looked back at Dad, who the man had obviously come to see. She seemed nervous and small. It didn’t take a genius to know she couldn’t wait to get out of the way and let Dad handle whatever it was this guy wanted.

Then the man stepped aside and slung a woman into the house. You’re f—king her, she can live here with you.

He slung her hard, and I mean hard. The woman shot past my parents and played bumper pool with the walls in the hallway. I don’t see how she avoided busting her ass.

The woman had fiery red hair and pale skin. Her face was all blotchy from crying. His fingers had bruised the hell out of her upper arm. I didn’t notice Mom and Dad for staring at her. At that stage of my life, it was the closest I’d ever come to an erection. Like father like son, I guess. Not that I even had a clue what that was, let alone the implications.

Back then, I didn’t even get why that man who threw her was mad. I recognized the F-word, but I didn’t know what it meant. It was a bad word; I knew that much. Johnny Miller got in big trouble for using it at school.

What really freaked me out was: we made eye contact. She was clinging to a wall for refuge, and her green eyes locked onto mine. I’d never seen a grownup trapped and terrified before. Yeah, on TV, sure, but never in person.

You’re f—king her, she can live with you. Mom jumped for Jesus after that, and Dad had no choice but to go along. I mean, what could he say, really?

CHAPTER 2

TUESDAY, APRIL 24, 2018

Wow, Layla says. Just wow.

I’ve just finished telling her the story of how my life changed after second grade.

Your mom actually took him back? She slings her dark hair out of her face, and I watch. I watch her a lot.

He never really got kicked out, I tell her. Well, for a couple of days, right after. But no address change. Nothing like that.

Layla’s brown eyes are nails. I’d leave him and take him for everything he’s worth, she says.

I nod, but I don’t say anything. Mom wound up doing just what Layla described. Only not with divorce courts and lawyers. Instead, Dad wound up losing himself one slow piece at a time.

So your mom picked out the sleaziest cult she could find, Layla says.

Actually, we joined a Methodist church, I reply.

We’re sitting in the living room of my mom’s house. OK. I live with my mom. Not a huge deal, seeing that I just turned seventeen. But it’ll get downright embarrassing when I’m still here five years from now. Yeah, when. Not if.

You’re shitting me, Layla says.

Hell, yeah, I say. Mitchell was once a Methodist minister.

I’m not believing this, Layla says. She’s not real muscular, but she’s got a nice butt, and I can tell she’s limber as hell by the way she leans forward when she’s talking. Any of this.

You shouldn’t have copped to anything, I say. And I say it with a straight face too. Even though I know it’s a bunch of bullshit. Even though I know that was the plan all along.

I couldn’t let you go to jail for helping me, she says.

Yeah. By design. How they planned it—how we planned it; I was in on it.

See, my mom is Reverend Mitchell’s personal assistant, and installing a keyboard logger on her office computer was my idea. As far as Layla knows … See, she’s convinced that the church is bilking her parents financially. Can’t imagine how she got that idea.

So what better way into a girl’s heart than being a hero? A champion of her cause! We’d get evidence. Report it to whatever authorities you report stuff like that to. Wise up her parents, if nothing else. Of course she was down with that.

Instead, my arrest happened yesterday. In front of Layla. Staged, of course. Sergeant Williams cuffed me for show, shoved me in the back of his squad car, and took me home.

And now Reverend Mitchell has leverage on her. After they took me away, she folded. Admitted to getting the keyboard logger and distracting my mom while I installed it. So now she’s confessed to a crime. But Mitchell’s forgiving, if nothing else. (Right. About as forgiving as a cornered viper.) Police and parents don’t need to find out about it. Mutual trust here.

After all, he who is without sin … well, nobody’s pure as the driven snow, are they? That’s what our church, Crux of Deliverance, is all about. Their target market: people who think getting on God’s good side is going to pay dividends for them in this life. Maybe so. A lot of our parishioners are better off than they were before Mitchell got ahold of them. At least between the ears. Financially, not so much.

Anyhow, Layla came over this afternoon to thank me for trying to help her gather evidence that would prove to her folks they were being swindled—and to make sure they really did drop the charges against me. Yeah. Check. No charges against Mike Saunders. And somehow or other, I wound up telling her that childhood story. It wasn’t a ploy to get her sympathy or appear that I was opening up to her or anything like that. My best guess: she’s easy to talk to—another reason I’m drawn to her—and we’re sitting in the den. Same room where my sister and I were sitting ten years ago. Probably dredged up some deep-rooted crap.

At any rate, since Layla’s family joined Crux of Deliverance four months ago, she’s been hanging out with me a lot. I’m not deluding myself. I’m way more into her than she’s into me. And I know damned well that the only reason she’s having anything to do with me is because she thinks I’m helping her expose Mitchell and his church for the scam that it is.

What she doesn’t know is: I can’t. And wouldn’t if I could. I’m one of them. Don’t like it. But that’s how it is. My mom’s there. And I promised her a long time ago …

What Layla also doesn’t know is: we’re organized. (I say we, but I’m just a spoke in a huge bicycle wheel.) So she has no idea that breaking up with her boyfriend two months ago was by design. That the girl she caught him with was with us. That’s right. Lots of contacts and connections out there that you don’t see on Sunday morning.

Anyhow, I know how they operate. Hell, I grew up with this shit. Plan A was to help me become Layla’s new boyfriend. And the powers that be—not God or Jesus but the Leadership Council—really didn’t care if we formed some spiritual bond with each other or spent all of our spare time getting high. Long as she didn’t cause trouble.

Thing is, I’m probably on my own with Layla, now that Reverend Mitchell has his leverage. Hooking me up with her offers no real advantage to them anymore. Real pillars of virtue, these people …

CHAPTER 3

EARLY MARCH 2018

I’ve been driving around for a couple of hours, following the mailman. I’m driving a church vehicle. A 2005 Buick Regal. Silver. You see someone in a crowded parking lot trying to remember where the hell he parked, he’s probably got a Buick. Nothing about them sticks out—they’re so common and conservative. That’s the idea. Something innocuous, but respectable too. They send the beater cars to the rougher neighborhoods.

I’m wearing a suit that’s as dull as the car I’m driving, and I’ve got a pleather briefcase full of shiny pamphlets with bold print on their covers. Surgery of the Spirit; Jesus, Your Profitable Savior; A Spiritual Stimulus Package for You. Everything you need to know about getting healthy, wealthy, and wise without half trying. The pamphlets are free, although they do have that all-important page with an address for sending donations. The other literature costs way more money than it’s worth. The usual suspects: books on communing with God and/or Jesus as the mood strikes you. Oh, and an instruction guide—with a DVD, no less—for speaking in tongues.

But that’s all for show. When I visit a house on the list, I’m there to pilfer mail. The list is prospective church members who’ve attended services but need help getting off the fence. Anyone who walks in the door, in other words. If you look at the sea of arm-waving people on any given Sunday, it’s a sure bet they’ve all made the list, one way or another.

How it works is: greeters hand out guest cards to new arrivals. Sure, the cleaning crew picks a lot of them up off the floor, but it’s mind-blowing how many of them get filled out—I’m talking completely: address, phone number, everything. That means they don’t need convincing. In sports terms, they’re the lay-ups, the six-inch putts. We call them A-Groupers. One step away from becoming full members whether they know it or not. B-Groupers make you work for it. They fill in just their names. Nothing else. Sure, the other info is easy to come by, but it takes time, and there are lots of dead ends along the way. (So I’m told. I’m not involved in that part of it.)

I’ve ridden along when they’ve tailed C-Groupers to their homes. They’re the ones who attend a couple of services but give us nothing to work with. Except, of course, they park their car in the church lot. Big mistake. We follow them home and get their address. Old-school sleuthing. Hell, the reverend’s got plenty of warm bodies at his disposal, and tailing them doesn’t leave a digital trail like running their plates.

And those names and addresses? Reverend Mitchell calls it a mailing list, which is true in a sleazy sort of way. To the outside world, it’s a listing of anyone who’s ever been associated with the church in any way at all, even if all they do is request free literature from the website. The list has fully fledged members’ names on it too, but that’s only for show.

OK, more terminology. The reverend calls these little missions seeking to understand. So we can help them, of course. I mean, they are potential flock members. Oh yeah, flock’s another one of his words. Creates a real secure feeling, don’t you think?

So I guess that makes me a seeker. Seeker second class. Like that angel in Wonderful Life who hadn’t earned his wings. Not that there’s anywhere to fly to.

Anyhow, names and addresses get mapped out, and we seekers are assigned various sections of the city or the suburbs. Reverend Mitchell’s son, Percy, handles assignments. He’s the kind of guy that would kick an old man’s walker out from under him when nobody’s looking. With an audience, though, he’s all sweetness. Lays it on thick too. Not like his old man, who can make bullshit smell like syrup, but he’s working on it.

With Percy doling out assignments, I’m lucky not to draw a bad neighborhood where the police are the least of your worries. Bangers don’t like religious fanatics. And why would they? We’re competition invading their turf. Peddling a different drug, that’s all.

I park down the street and wait for the mail truck to make its way through the cul de sac. I’ve got a nice view of the house and watch through a gap between two other houses across from it. After the postman leaves, I give them a few minutes to come out and get the mail. People do that sometimes. Hard to imagine waiting to pounce as soon as the mail comes, but that’s the kind of people we get—they’re looking for something to happen.

If they are pouncers, I make a note of it and move on. I’m only on the hook for a couple of houses a week. Percy says five, but he can pucker up and kiss my ass. I’ll give their house a couple more tries, then it’s garbage time. That’s a sucky job. First you get there before the garbage men and dump their trash into the back of a truck. Then you put on the rubber gloves and get started.

Trash or mail, we’re looking for anything we can find out about them. Seeking, remember? Only with mail, pilfer is overstating it, and the process is way easier. All I do is dump their letters into a bag and turn it in. They sure as hell don’t tell me what’s done with it. But I know they read it. And send it back. That’s right, send it back. Ever gotten mail late? Well, just saying … The mechanics behind it, I don’t know. Maybe they steam it open and reseal it; maybe they use whole new envelopes, both the regular