Almost Heaven Read online

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Chris Fabry

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Reading Group Questions and Topics for Discussion

  Praise for Chris Fabry

  “[Almost Heaven is] a redemptive story that shows how God uses ordinary, broken people to accomplish his purposes. Perseverance and sincere faith affect us today and linger into eternity.”

  Wess Stafford, president and CEO of Compassion International

  “[June Bug] is a stunning success, and readers will find themselves responding with enthusiastic inner applause.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “June Bug is masterful. An honest story that dove deep inside me and lingered long after I turned the last page.”

  Charles Martin, New York Times best-selling author of Where the River Ends

  “From the moment I read the first chapter, I couldn’t put this book down. A story carved out of real-life dynamics, June Bug captures the heart.”

  Gary Chapman, PhD, New York Times best-selling author of The Five Love Languages

  “In June Bug, Chris Fabry weaves his talent as a storyteller and his heart for the suffering people of this world into a well-told tale of sacrifice and healing, sorrow and hope, and what happens when we remain faithful to those we love. Well-written and bursting with life.”

  Lisa Samson, Christy Award–winning author of Quaker Summer and The Passion of Mary-Margaret

  “June Bug is a heartwarming tale and a precious reminder that God moves in mysterious ways to create families. June Bug is a heroine you’re not likely to forget.”

  Angela Hunt, Christy Award–winning author of The Note II: Taking a Chance on Love

  “An emotionally riveting novel that readers will not soon forget, June Bug is an endearing story to cherish.”

  Tina Ann Forkner, author of Ruby Among Us and Rose House

  “Once the story starts cooking, [Dogwood] is difficult to put down, what with Fabry’s surprising plot resolution and themes of forgiveness, sacrificial love, and suffering.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Fabry . . . has written an unusual and emotional tale with a startling twist.”

  Library Journal

  “Fabry’s first novel for adults builds tension and momentum until you’re compelled to keep reading to learn the secrets that have so greatly impacted the residents of Dogwood. Ultimately a story of love and forgiveness, [Dogwood] should appeal to a wide audience. Highly recommended.”

  CBA Retailers + Resources

  “Fabry’s debut adult novel is filled with twists that will leave readers speechless.”

  Romantic Times, four-star review

  “Fabry’s plot is intricate and involved with more twists than a backwoods country road. [Dogwood] is a page-turner that keeps the reader guessing until the end.”

  AnE Vibe

  “Dogwood turned out to be something I wasn’t expecting at all . . . a book about deep secrets, the effort it takes to heal catastrophic hurts, and a thriller with an excellent plot climax.”

  1340magbooks.com

  “Chris Fabry’s debut adult novel, Dogwood, is a mosaic of humanity, God’s grace, and the power of love. Solidly literary fiction with deep, flawed characters and beautiful prose, Dogwood also contains a mystery within the story that adds tension and a deepening plot. . . . Fabry is a wordsmith and quite a storyteller.”

  Novel Reviews

  Visit Tyndale’s exciting Web site at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Chris Fabry’s Web site at www.chrisfabry.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Almost Heaven

  Copyright © 2010 by Chris Fabry. All rights reserved.

  Cover photo of sky copyright © by Bruno Morandi/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Cover photo of mandolin copyright © by Bright/Dreamstime. All rights reserved.

  Cover photo of feather copyright © by Alexander Potapov/iStock. All rights reserved.

  Author photo copyright © 2009 by Edward McCain, www.mccainphoto.com.

  All rights reserved.

  Designed by Beth Sparkman

  Edited by Sarah Mason

  Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  The Scripture quotations in the epigraph and in chapter 34 are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Fabry, Chris, date.

  Almost heaven / Chris Fabry.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4143-1957-5 (sc)

  I. Title.

  PS3556.A26A78 2010

  813’.54—dc22 2010021758

  To the memory of

  James William “Billy” Allman and Barbara Kessel.

  You are both missed.

  In West Virginia, history often repeats itself. Perhaps the fact that our history is so painful explains why it is so poorly understood.

  John Alexander Williams

  Therefore, angels are only servants—spirits sent to care for people who will inherit salvation.

  Hebrews 1:14

  Prologue

  Dogwood, West Virginia

  2006

  Becky Putnam stepped onto Billy Allman’s front porch, a camera strung over one shoulder and a reporter’s notebook in the other hand. She had graduated with a degree in journalism from Marshall University, a minor in English literature, and felt lucky to have a job in her chosen field. But after a few more assignments like this one, she was going to apply at the new Target. She’d heard they were hiring.

  A friend of the owner had mentioned something about Billy Allman and his new venture in town. It was a human-interest story, but not one worth telling in detail. She hoped to get a couple of usable snapshots and then head back to work on the obituaries. If there was anything that kept circulation up, it was the obituaries.

  A dog growled inside when she knocked, and she noticed his brown and white coat through the small window by the door. He put his paws up and peered at her, then scratched at the door. She turned and looked at the hillside and the interstate in the distance, car tires whining with the muted wetness of a West Virginia rain. There was nothing like West Virginia rain to bring out the smell of the earth. Of course, she hated the smell of the earth and the West Virginia rain. She wanted to be working in Cincinnati or Lexington. Somewhere that could yield a double homicide or some gang slayings. Instead she was stuck with a promo/puff piece about a guy who had built a radio station in his own house. What could possibly come
from this?

  The door opened, and there stood Billy Allman. She had expected someone eccentric, maybe with thick glasses and an Albert Einstein look. Wild hair. Or a Stephen Hawking body in a wheelchair. But Billy looked surprisingly normal. He had a crooked grin and hair that barely covered a growing bald spot. He wasn’t short or tall, just average with an average build and hairy arms that hung down from a tight T-shirt with sweat stains in the underarms. His jeans had that unwashed look that led her to believe they could stand in the corner by themselves. His skin was washed-out, and she thought of the poem by Edgar Allen Poe that included:

  While the angels, all pallid and wan,

  Uprising, unveiling, affirm

  That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”

  And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

  She didn’t know why she thought of that, other than the word pallid, which was how Billy looked. A tinge of ghost to his complexion. She guessed it was from being inside most of the day.

  “You must be Becky,” he said. “Come on in. Don’t mind him; he’ll just lick you to death.”

  He shook her hand and backed inside, looking about and straightening some newspapers on an old couch. Lined up against the wall was a collection of old radios. She asked about them, and Billy went into a dissertation about the year they were made and how long it took him to restore them. He turned one on and let her hear the sound quality and smiled as he tuned the dial.

  More to keep the movement going forward than from a keen interest, she said, “Do you mind if I take your picture in front of them?”

  His eyes danced and he held up a finger for her to wait. He disappeared into a cluttered room and returned with what looked like a bookshelf with several tubes and knobs mounted on top. “This is my 1924 Atwater Kent. My pride and joy.”

  “Great,” Becky said.

  He knelt in front of the other radios and rested the shelf on one leg as she snapped the photo. Then Billy led her into the control room, and she took a few more with him at the microphone with headphones on.

  When she was done, they sat in the living room and she took some notes. He offered her a drink of water, but by the looks of the dishes in his sink, she didn’t want to take the chance. The room was stuffy and close, and the odor of sweaty clothes and stale breath and old wood made her eyes water.

  “Is there a Mrs. Allman?” she said.

  “No, my mother is gone. . . . You mean a wife?” Billy blushed. “No. I’ve n-never married.”

  “You must be quite proud of this accomplishment,” Becky said, changing the subject. “Not everyone can build their own radio station.”

  Billy nodded. “This is about the happiest day of my life.”

  She wondered what was on the opposite end of that spectrum. If this was the high point, what could possibly be the low point?

  She asked a few more questions and took one of his business cards with the station’s slogan on the front. “Is there anything you’d like to add that I haven’t asked?” That was one of those questions they taught you in journalism school.

  “You’ve pretty much covered it, I guess.” He walked her out, and as she stood on the porch, he leaned against the door, the dog sitting at his feet dutifully. “I know it’s not much. I mean, I know most people probably will pass right over my picture and the news about the station. But I appreciate you taking the time to come all the way out here. I appreciate your interest.”

  His sincerity almost took her breath away. She smiled and shook his hand again. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Allman. I hope you like the story we run.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  1

  I suppose you can sum up a man’s life with a few words. That’s what the newspaper tries to do with an obituary. And it’s what that reporter will try to do in her article. “Billy Allman . . . resident of Dogwood . . . lifelong dream to build a radio station . . .” She’ll do a fine job, I’m sure. She seemed kindhearted and the type that will get her facts straight, but I know there will be a lot of my life that will fall through the cracks.

  I believe every life has hidden songs that hang by twin threads of music and memory. I believe in the songs that have never been played for another soul. I believe they run between the rocks and along the creekbeds of our lives. These are songs that cannot be heard by anything but the soul. They sometimes run dry or spill over the banks until we find ourselves wading through them.

  My life has been filled with my share of dirges and plainsongs. I would sing jaunty melodies of cotton candy and ice cream if I could, a top-40 three-minute-and-twenty-second tune, but the songs that have been given to me are played in A minor and are plagued with pauses and riffs that have no clear resolution. I ache for some major chord, a tonal shift that brings musical contentment. I do not know if I will find that.

  Throughout my life I have dedicated myself to God. I told him early on that I would go anywhere and do anything he wanted. No holding back. But as time slipped and the conversation has become more one-sided, that plan has appeared haphazard at best. God has seemed massively indifferent to my devotion, if he has even heard my cries.

  I suppose I need to put this story down in an ordered fashion to make sense of the silence and to fill in the missing places of my own. Or perhaps I will be able to convince the people who know me as a hermit that there was some reason for the pain. Our lives are judged by a few snapshots taken at vulnerable moments, and I have decided to set my hand to recording the flashes I can recall, the ones revealing my motivations. The look on that reporter’s face as I showed her the disparate parts of my life made me want to put this down in my own words. But this is not really for those outside looking in. This is for me.

  * * *

  One of the neighbors described the morning of February 26, 1972, as a cold stillness. I woke up at the first sign of the overcast light. It was my tenth birthday, and as children will do, I did not want sleep to steal any of the good apportioned to me that day. I had invited three boys from my class to the first and last party my parents would ever offer. After that day, Mama never wanted to celebrate a thing, I guess. She had baked a cake the night before and I wanted a piece so bad I could taste it. I can still smell the cherry icing if I close my eyes and think hard enough.

  I flipped on the TV to watch the only channel we got in the hollow. Too early for Johnny Quest or Scooby Doo, my favorites. It was some preacher talking about a prophecy of sudden destruction and how it would come like a thief in the night, like a woman’s labor pains. We should be prepared. We should cry out to God now before that destruction came.

  At ten, I hadn’t committed many mortal sins, so there wasn’t much reason for me to think that his message had bearing on my life. But after the fact I wondered if what happened was because I was too prideful or had asked for too many presents. Children will do that—make everything about them, as if some decision they make will change the course of history. If I had prayed right then and there, would things have been different? If I had cried out to God for mercy, would he have changed the course of Buffalo Creek?

  I turned off the TV and went to the front window, where the beads of water streaked the awkwardly cut glass and drifted down to the softening wood that tried to hold it all together. In the wintertime the wind whistled through those panes and ice formed on the inside so thick you could scrape your name. Now the water soaked the window through, and streams flowed down the dirt driveway to the road, washing the mud across it. The sight of that misty morning ran cold through me. It was as if the leaves had known better. They had escaped and left the trees looking like sticks on the silent hillside.

  Daddy had left the house in the evening to check on the creek because it was up to the top of its banks. He came back to tell us a bunch of people had already gone to the high school because they thought the dam was going to break. The fellow from the coal company had assured everyone up and down the valley that nothing was wrong. We should just stay in our houses. Ride out the rain. />
  “You think we ought to get over to the school?” Mama had said.

  Daddy rubbed his chin. “I think we ought to wait it out and see.” Daddy had faith in the company, but not as much as he had in God.

  I noticed a muddy spot on the front porch that wasn’t there the night before, so I could tell Daddy had been back, but now I figured he was checking the dam one more time. There wasn’t much movement on the road, just a few cars spraying water as they passed. And then I saw him, moving faster than usual. My father had a gentleman’s gait. He never seemed in a hurry, sort of like my idea of what Jesus must have been like walking along in dusty Israel. He always had time to reach down and give a dog a pat on the head or to pull me close to him with one of those big hands. Like other people who make their homes on the sides of mountains, he took things in stride. He believed that a person in haste usually missed out.

  But my daddy walked straight inside the house that morning without taking his boots off. The mud was everywhere, and all I could do was stare at his feet and wonder what had happened because Mama would kill him when she saw it.

  “Where’s your mother?” he said.

  “Still asleep,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Arlene!” he shouted. I heard the bedsprings creak, and he turned back to me before he walked down the hall. “Get dressed quick.”

  “Is it the dam?” I said.

  “Yeah, it’s the dam.”

  I threw on a pair of pants and a shirt over the T-shirt I’d slept in. Though they tried to speak softly, I could hear everything. I heard everything they said about me at the breakfast table each morning and everything they talked about in bed through the thin walls of that tiny house. At least everything I wanted to hear. Sometimes I didn’t want to hear a word from them because of the pain it brought about my older brother Harless.