She put her old small hand on his back. She kept it there. After a long while, Wade was able to speak. Roz. Yes, Preacher.
Why now? Because Mary told me to give it to you when you were ready. For 30 years, Preacher, you were not ready. This week I watched you walk into a diner and take your hat off to a working woman. This week I watched you sit down across from a broken Marine and remind him he was a man.
This week I watched you get down on your knees, Preacher. I know you did. I could see it in your eyes Tuesday morning. You were ready. He wiped his face with the back of his hand.
Roz, all those years. I know. All those years I could have I know, Preacher. Mary, oh Mary. Roz's hand was on his back.
She has been waiting, Preacher. She has been waiting a long time, but she is not in a hurry. You do not need to hurry, either. You just need to start walking again. He nodded.
He could not speak. Roz let him be. 3 weeks later, a check arrived at Delia Brennan's blue house. It was drawn on an account called the Midwest Brotherhood Riders Association. It was signed by a man named Marcus Hollister.
It was for $47,000. Attached to the check was a handwritten note on Wade Caldwell's cramped, careful script. Miss Brennan, the boys took up a collection. They also sold an old panhead one of them had been hanging on to for 40 years. Don't argue with us.
This is for rent, past and future. This is for a ramp for your brother's chair so he can get into the bathroom. This is for a new coat for both of you. This is for whatever is left after. You do not owe us anything.
This is not a loan. This is what men do when women stand up in front of them and remind them what courage looks like. Keep the change. Wade. Delia held the check.
She cried for a while, then she laughed. Then she cried again. Then she drove out to the Starlight Motel, but the angels had been gone for 2 weeks. There was nobody to give the check back to. She drove to Roz's instead.
Roz looked at the check. Roz folded it up. Roz handed it back. You take that, child. You take it and you build a life with it.
Men like Wade do not give money they want back. Men like Wade give money because they cannot give back the years they lost. You understand? Delia understood. Wade came back to Ashfield in May.
He pulled his shovelhead into the gravel lot at Roz's on a Tuesday morning. He walked in. He took the booth by the window. Delia came out of the kitchen with the coffee pot. Wade.
Ma'am. We have been waiting. I know. You look different. I feel different.
She poured his coffee. She sat down across from him. Roz's was empty between rushes. Where have you been? A lot of places, ma'am.
Most of all, I have been at First Baptist in Iowa City. I called the pastor there in January. Man named Reverend Hayes. I told him I used to stand behind his pulpit 40 years ago. I told him I walked away from it.
I told him I wanted to come home. What did he say? He told me to come on Sunday. He told me to sit in the back. He told me not to rush.
So I sat in the back. Every Sunday for 4 months. And 2 Sundays ago, he asked me to come up to the front and give the benediction. It was 40 seconds long. I could not say much, but I said it.
Delia's eyes were wet. Wade. Ma'am. I am so glad. Me, too, ma'am.
Me, too. He drank his coffee. She let him drink it in peace. When he was done, he said, "Ma'am, next Sunday, Reverend Hayes has asked me to preach my first sermon in 40 years. And I wondered if you and your brother would consider making the drive down to Iowa City.
I would be honored to have you there." She did not hesitate. We'll be there. The church was full that Sunday. Word had traveled.
Wade Caldwell was back in the pulpit. Men who had heard him preach in the '70s had come. Men and women, many of them gray now themselves. Some of them on canes. Some of them with oxygen tanks.
One old woman in a wheelchair pushed up to the front by her great-granddaughter. In the third row on the left side sat a 38-year-old waitress in her only good dress next to a 34-year-old Marine in his Marine Corps jacket who had walked into the church on his own two legs. In the second row on the right side sat Rosalyn Kowalski, 79 years old, silver hair in a tight bun for the first time since her husband's funeral in 1982. In the back pew in uniform sat Carl Weathers and his wife. He had pleaded down to a 3-year probationary sentence and had kept his badge by cooperating.
He had cried when the judge read the verdict. His boys had been at that hearing. His boys had hugged him in the hallway after. His boys had said, "Dad, we love you." Wade walked up to the pulpit.
He looked out at the congregation. He held a small wooden cross in his hand. 4 decades old, carved by a 4-year-old boy with a pocketknife. He laid the cross on the pulpit. Next to it, he laid a folded yellow letter, cracked and soft with age.
Then he spoke. My name is Wade Caldwell. Most of you know that. Some of you knew me when. Some of you will not recognize me and I do not blame you.
I have been gone a long time. He paused. I want to tell you about a waitress. She is sitting right there in the third row in the blue dress. Her name is Delia Brennan and last October she changed my life.