She does need money for a new boat and motor, and also additional funds for medicines. I will gladly forward a check to your organization for these expenses; just give me directions.
I plan to write Rachel again, though I have no idea how she gets her mail. Could you please drop me a line and let me know this letter was received and that her letter was forwarded to her? Thanks.
It was signed Nate O'Riley. At the bottom of the letter was a phone number in St. Michaels, Maryland, and an address at a law firm in Washington.
Corresponding with Rachel was a very simple matter. Twice a year, on March 1 and on August 1, World Tribes sent packages to the post office in Corumba. Included were medical supplies, Christian literature, and anything else that she might need or want. The post office agreed to hold the August packages for thirty days, and if they went unclaimed they were to be returned to Houston. This had never happened. In August of every year, Rachel made her annual trek to Corumba, at which time she called the home office and practiced her English for ten minutes. She collected her packages and returned to the Ipicas. In March, after the rainy season, the packages were sent upriver on a chalana and dropped off at a fazenda near the mouth of the Xeco River. Lako would retrieve them eventually. The March packages were always smaller than the August ones.
In eleven years, Rachel had never received a personal letter, at least not through World Tribes.
Neva copied the phone number and address on a notepad, then hid the letter in a drawer. She would send it in a month or so, along with the usual supplies for March.
THEY WORKED for almost an hour cutting two by fours for the next little classroom. The floor was covered with sawdust. Phil had some in his hair. The screech of the saw still rang in their ears. It was time for coffee. They sat on the floor, their backs to the wall, near a portable heater. Phil poured strong latte from a thermos.
"You missed a great sermon yesterday," he said with a grin.
"Where?"
"What do you mean, where? Here of course."
"What was the subject?"
"Adultery."
"For it or against it?"
"Against it, as always."
"I wouldn't think that'd be much of a problem with your congregation."
"I give the sermon once a year."
"Same sermon?"
"Yes, but always fresh."
"When was the last time one of your members had a problem with adultery?"
"Couple of years ago. One of our younger members thought her husband had another woman in Baltimore. He traveled there once a week on business, and she noticed that he returned home a different person. He had more energy, more enthusiasm for life. This would last for two or three days, then he was his usual cranky self again. She became convinced he had fallen in love."
"Cut to the chase."
"He was seeing a chiropractor."
Phil laughed loudly through his nose, a strange cackle that was infectious and usually funnier than the punch line. When the humor passed, they sipped in unison. Then Phil asked, "In your other life, Nate, did you ever have a problem with adultery?"
"None whatsoever. It wasn't a problem, it was a way of life. I chased anything that walked. Every semiattractive woman was nothing but a potential quickie. I was married, but I never thought that I was committing adultery. It wasn't sin; it was a game. I was a sick puppy, Phil."
"I shouldn't have asked."
"No, confession is good for the soul. I'm ashamed of the person I used to be. The women, booze, drugs, bars, fights, divorces, neglected children-I was a mess. I wish I had those days back. But it's important now to remember how far I've come."
"You have many good years left, Nate."
"I hope so. I'm just not sure what to do."
"Be patient. God will lead you."
"Of course, at the rate we're going, I could have a very long career right here."
Phil smiled but didn't erupt with a cackle. "Study your Bible, Nate, and pray. God needs people like you."
"I suppose."
"Trust me. It took me ten years to find God's will. I ran for a while, then I stopped and listened. Slowly, he led me into the ministry."
"How old were you?"
"I was thirty-six when I entered the seminary."
"Were you the oldest one?"
"No. It's not uncommon to see people in their forties in seminary. Happens all the time."
"How long does it take?"
"Four years."
"That's worse than law school."
"It wasn't bad at all. In fact, it was quite enjoyable."
"Can't say that for law school."
They worked for another hour, then it was time for lunch. The snow had finally melted, all of it, and there was a crab house down the road in I'llghman that Phil enjoyed. Nate was anxious to buy lunch.
"Nice car," Phil said as he belted himself in. Sawdust shook from his shoulder onto the spotless leather seat of the Jaguar. Nate couldn't have cared less.
"It's a lawyer's car, leased of course because I couldn't afford to pay cash for it. Eight hundred bucks a month."
"Sorry."
"I'd love to unload it and get me a nice little Blazer or something."
Route 33 narrowed as they left town, and they were soon winding along the bay.
HE WAS IN BED when the phone rang, but not asleep. Sleep was an hour away. It was only ten, but his body was still accustomed to the routine of Walnut Hill, his trip south notwithstanding. And at times he felt some residual fatigue from the dengue.
It was difficult to believe that for most of his professional life he often worked until nine or ten at night, then had dinner in a bar and drinks until one. He grew weary just thinking about it.
Since the phone seldom rang, he grabbed it quickly, certain it was trouble. A female voice said, "Nate O'Riley, please."
"This is Nate O'Riley."
"Good evening, sir. My name is Neva Collier, and I received a letter from you for our friend in Brazil."
The covers flew off as Nate jumped from the bed. "Yes! You got my letter?"
"We did. I read it this morning, and I will send Rachel's letter to her."
"Wonderful. How does she get mail?"
"I send it to Corumba, at certain times of the year."
"Thank you. I'd like to write her again."
"That's fine, but please don't put her name on the envelopes."
It occurred to Nate that it was nine o'clock in Houston. She was calling from home, and this seemed more than odd. The voice was pleasant enough, but tentative.
"Is something wrong?" he asked.
"No, except that no one here knows who she is. No one but me. Now with your involvement, there are two people in the world who know where she is and who she is."
"She swore me to secrecy."
"Was she difficult to find?"
"You could say that. I wouldn't worry about others finding her."
"But how did you do it?"
"Her father did it. You know about Troy Phelan?"
"Yes. I'm clipping news stories."
"Before he left this world, he tracked her to the Pantanal. I have no idea how he did it."
"He had the means."
"Yes he did. We knew generally where she was, and I went down there, hired a guide, got lost, and found her. Do you know her well?"
"I'm not sure anyone knows Rachel well. I speak to her once a year in August, from Corumba. She tried a furlough five years ago, and I had lunch with her one day. But no, I don't know her that well."