by Carla Damron
CHAPTER 9
“Welcome to the bowels of hell.” The voice snarled in Joe’s ear, and his eyes popped open, half-expecting to see the demon hanging over his nest. But there was nobody there, just the tall limbs of the oak tree waving against the morning sky.
“Bowels of hell,” the voice repeated, like Satan’s mouth was close enough to eat him alive. Joe jerked up, stiff from the cold air and lack of sleep, and leaned back against Mr. Wortham Pinckney’s tombstone. He could hear the rumble of trucks on the road, the nattering of squirrels above him, and that voice of pure darkness speaking on this, God’s holy ground. “I’m coming for you, Joe.”
He shivered. Sometimes if he ignored the devil, he’d go away, but he was so full of venom now there might be no shaking him. Joe stretched his fingers, trying to get some life into them, his joints tight from the frosted ground. A green van pulled into the church parking lot, beeping as it backed up—one he’d seen before. The driver climbed out and opened the back doors to lift out a ring of white flowers.
Funeralizing flowers.
“I’m coming,” Satan said.
Joe was the worst kind of sinner, but had there been one sin, one bad deed in His eyes that caused Him to stop caring? What had it been? Was there some way Joe could make it right?
Other cars came into the church lot. The funeral must be soon, so Joe’d better tidy up his squat. He rolled the jacket he used as a pillow into a tight ball, tying it with a piece of yellow cord he’d found in a dumpster. He brushed away the leaves he’d piled up to sleep on, careful to wipe off Mr. Pinckney’s stone so that every letter could be read. The remains of an apple he ate last night had rolled to another grave. When he lifted it, a parade of fire ants stormed up his hand and bit into him.
“Unh!” Joe puffed out at the pain. He hurried to the trash bin and tossed the apple, then swept his hand and wrist to get rid of the swarming ants that didn’t want to leave him. Soon both arms felt the stubborn sting.
“He knows what you done,” said the devil.
Water would help. He rushed to the church hose beside the east gate, worried that the ants would keep on climbing, maybe get under his clothes and torment all his flesh. He turned on the spigot and the icy water sprayed his arms and calmed the burn. He studied his skin to make sure all the ants were gone. Tiny bumps erupted on his hand. The pain and itch was just another thing he’d deal with that day.
“He knows what you done,” repeated the devil.
“What was it?” Joe asked aloud as he lumbered back to his squat. What had he done that the Lord would up and leave him? He’d gotten used to the Lord’s little gifts, like socks, or soap, or a brown bag lunch. Sometimes, a jacket or pair of boots. Maybe he hadn’t been grateful enough. Maybe he’d forgotten to say a prayer of thanks. Or maybe the Lord realized Joe didn’t deserve the things he brought.
Joe winced at the heat on his fingers from the ant bites and considered that maybe the Lord was done with him. Maybe that’s why the devil was on him like he was. Joe shouldn’t be making a home by His holy house when he wasn’t worthy of this sanctuary. The man at the soup kitchen had said they’d opened the winter shelter, but Joe didn’t want to stay there. If he had to leave his nest by the church, where else could he go?
Not by the river. People staying there did terrible bad things, people like Cyphus Lawter. The last time Joe had ventured there he’d seen three men beat another half to death over a crack pipe. Cyphus laughed at what they’d done and snatched the pipe for himself.
Rag Doll had talked about a place behind the old Piggly Wiggly grocery store, but if she told him about it, she’d told a number of men. Rag Doll would sell her body for a meal or a pack of cigarettes, and Joe didn’t need to be near that kind of carrying on. Not with the Lord already judging him.
Beyond the fence, Reverend Bill parked his big blue car in the usual spot. Joe liked to be gone before Reverend Bill showed up, so the pastor wouldn’t think Joe a nuisance. Not that Reverend Bill would ever say something like that, he was always nice to Joe, but Joe didn’t want to wear out his welcome. Then again, maybe he already had.
Reverend Bill waved at Joe. He waved back, uncertain what else to do, when he noticed the man walking towards him. Maybe Joe was in trouble. He smoothed down the front of the jacket, praying the pastor would walk on by. The reverend stopped in front of him. “How you doing, Joe?”
“Fine, Reverend. Fine as can be.” He kept his face down. It was disrespectful for someone like Joe to look right in the face of a man of God.
“That’s good. I hope you weren’t too cold last night.” He spoke with a soft, gentle voice, like he cared about Joe, like Joe was somebody worth caring for.
“Not too bad, not yet. I still got this nice coat.” He fiddled with a wooden button.
“Joe, do you know who left you that jacket?”
He nodded because of course he knew. The Lord left it, back when he wasn’t mad at Joe.
“Did he ever say anything to you about it?”
“No,” Joe whispered. “He don’t say much to me anymore.”
Reverend Bill put on this funny expression, like maybe something pinched him inside. “No, I don’t imagine he does.”
So did Reverend Bill know? Had the Lord told him what had been Joe’s sin? Should he ask? “I wish I knew what—I mean, I’m sure there’s a good reason.”
“Yes, there is.” Reverend leaned against the short wall that enclosed the grave yard. “When did you last talk to him?”
Joe thought about how to answer. He talked to the Lord all the time, in his head, but didn’t pray out loud much. But the people at this church prayed out loud, he’d heard it. Maybe that was what Reverend Bill was talking about. “Been a while,” Joe said.
“I should have told you sooner. I’m so sorry I didn’t. But Mitch died. He had a heart attack and—well—he was too sick for the hospital to fix. We’re having the funeral in a little while, after morning Communion. We’ll bury him here, in the churchyard.”
Joe blinked, trying to figure this out. Mitch died, he said. Mr. Mitch? That nice man who sometimes hired Joe to do a bit of yard work? He’d just seen him. He still had the twenty Mr. Mitch had paid him to rake his lawn. He often had jobs for him at his house or in empty buildings that needed some tending to. Joe would pick up trash, cut bushes, mow grass—whatever Mr. Mitch wanted. He paid real good, too. Cash money so Joe didn’t have to mess with a bank. Mr. Mitch was dead? “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“It’s been hard on the family, as you can imagine.”
“I sure can.” He’d seen Mr. Mitch with his family coming to church some days. They’d be all dressed up, and Joe didn’t get too close on days like that. The man’s family must miss him.
“Mitch always liked you, Joe.” The reverend let out a low sigh and it sounded so sad that Joe started feeling sad, too. It must be hard, working for the Lord like he did. So many souls he had to look out for. So many.
“We’re going to put the plaque up later. Mitch will be cremated, and his urn will go in the columbarium. You know where that is?”
Joe shook his head.
“Let me show you.” Reverend Bill passed Joe and turned to the south end of the graveyard, where the big stone sculpture had been added. He touched one of the copper plates on the stone. Did he mean Mr. Mitch would be inside that thing?
“You were always important to Mitch. You know that, don’t you?”
Joe nodded, because he thought that was what the reverend wanted, but he knew he wasn’t important to anyone. Not important like Mr. Mitch’s family, or the reverend, or even the people in all those cars driving by. He was just a man who lived in a graveyard and waited for the Lord to tell him what to do. And lately, the Lord had been real quiet.
Reverend Bill looked at the ground around the sculpture. “Leaves keep piling up. I should have tended to them yesterday.”
Joe bent over and scooped up as many as he could, twigs scratching his irritated hands. “I’l
l take care of it.”
“That would be great. Don’t leave without seeing me first. I want to pay you for your troubles.”
“I don’t need—” Joe didn’t get to finish the sentence because Reverend Bill looked at his watch and then hurried off.
Joe knew where the rake was kept, in the tiny tool room that the church should lock but never did. He grabbed the rake and a pair of gloves, glad to do this task for the reverend. Maybe the Lord would take notice.
TONYA SLIPPED INTO THE BACK pew of St. Mary’s Episcopal Church just as the minister said, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” She watched him make the sign of the cross in the air, then limp down the aisle, his robe flapping like white wings beside him. A few people had attended the service, which the sign outside described as “Weekday Morning Communion.” He shook the hand of each parishioner as they exited, laughing with one, nodding soberly at another. The sign had said his name was Bill Tanner.
She hadn’t told John yet about the news. He’d already left for work when she opened the paper and spotted the obituary for Mr. Hastings. A photograph of a smiling bald man topped two columns that detailed a life: a valued member of St. Mary’s Episcopal Church, a successful and respected businessman, survived by his wife, Lena, sons Mitchell Sims Jr. and Elliott, daughter-in-law Connie, and daughter Rebecca.
She wished John would be supportive about Mr. Hastings, understand how hard this was for her, but he’d mentioned the attorney again last night. What would he say now that Mitchell Hastings wasn’t alive to be sued?
Everyone else had left except the minister, who loosened a rope belt that had a gold fringe. He was watching her, and she was embarrassed. She started to grab her purse and flee, but the man approached, limping up the aisle, and sliding into the pew beside her. He tugged at the collar encircling his throat.
“Dang thing feels like a noose sometimes,” he said. The not-very-holy comment came as a surprise.
“I haven’t seen you here before. That’s the advantage of having a handful of worshippers in these weekday services. I know everybody. To be honest, if it wasn’t for the van from the Still Hopes Retirement home, I might be here all by my lonesome. Except today. Today I have you.” He smiled at her. His eyes were a milky green, with deep creases surrounding them.
“I missed most of the service. Sorry.”
He startled her by unbuttoning the robe where it covered his legs. He reached down and massaged his right knee. “Arthritis,” he explained. “Growing old ain’t for the faint of heart.”
Tonya felt for the purse beside her. She should leave.
“I’m Bill Tanner,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Tonya.” She almost added, “Ladson,” but wanted to stay anonymous.
He pushed harder on the knee, grimacing.
“That must hurt,” she said.
“The doctor says if I get a knee replacement it will change my life. But I don’t like the thought of someone holding a knife over my leg.” He looked at her. “What do you think? Would you let them do it?”
She shrugged. “If it helped I would.”
“That’s because you’re braver than I am.” He gave her wink.
“I’m not brave.” She wove her fingers through the straps of her purse. She needed to get to the office. Using the excuse of a visit to the office supply store bought her an hour delay, and Ruthless kept an eye on the clock.
“Somehow I doubt that.” He leaned back, stretching the leg out into the aisle and wincing. She felt sort of sorry for him.
A door opened beside the giant cross hanging in the front of the church. A man carried in a large wreath of white flowers. “Where you want this?” he yelled.
“Sorry,” Reverend Tanner muttered to her. “We have a funeral in a few hours. I’ll be right back. Don’t move, okay?”
She nodded, though the pull to flee was hard to ignore. He hobbled to the altar rail and instructed the florists to place all the flowers in an arc beside the marble altar. “How many arrangements?” he asked them.
“Twelve so far. The guy was popular,” the florist answered.
Tonya lowered her head.
“Put some by the columbarium,” Rev. Tanner answered, then turned and walked back to where she waited.
“Are you coming to the funeral?” he asked, settling beside her again.
She shook her head. Hot tears flooded her eyes and she wished she could push them back inside. “I didn’t know Mr. Hastings.”
He didn’t speak, but handed her a thin cotton handkerchief. She felt its frayed corners, and thought about how her grandfather always kept a tattered red kerchief in the back pocket of his overalls.
“I was the one in the wreck with him,” she said. “It was my car that hit Mr. Hastings. I didn’t see him until it was too late. I tried to slam on my brakes but he came right through the intersection and hit me, and our cars slid together until his bounced off and skidded away and hit a tree. It happened so fast, just a few seconds, and all that damage.
“My light was green. I know it was green. But I keep thinking that I should have done something—swerved or braked or even pulled off the road but I was on my cell and I didn’t and Mr. Hastings is dead.”
He studied her, his crinkled lips puffing out a sigh. She wished he didn’t look so kind.
“Is that how you injured your nose?”
“The airbag. My son was in the car, too. Thank God for his car seat.”
“Yes. Thank God.”
“Byron’s two. He broke his collarbone, but that was all. Except he’s gotten real clingy, and he wakes up at night crying. I think he’s still scared.” She had held his hand when she took him to Little Smiles daycare that morning. He’d ignored his favorite Tonka truck. Rejected the spotted rocking horse. It was when another toddler had teased him with a stuffed octopus that Byron stopped clutching her skirt so she could leave.
She wiped her face again, wincing when her hand touched the bruise. “I feel like I keep reliving those minutes over and over. But at least I’m alive to live them over.”
“Tonya.” He spoke sternly as though wanting her full attention. “I want to make sure you understand what happened. Mitch had a heart attack before the accident. That’s why he ran the light. That’s what caused the wreck. None of this is your fault.”
She stared at him, desperate to believe. “Before?”
“He had chest pains that morning but the family thought it was reflux. We think the cardiac arrest happened seconds before he went through the light.”
It felt as if the room had tilted on its axis. The accident hadn’t caused his heart attack. It was the other way around.
“Tonya? You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just surprised.” She wiped her face with his handkerchief. “But he didn’t die right away. I mean, he was in the hospital for a while.”
“Because he was trapped in the car, he went too long without oxygen getting to his brain. Lena—that’s his wife—waited until all the family was together before ending life supports.”
“So if I hadn’t crashed into him, maybe he’d have gotten help sooner. Maybe he would have recovered.”
Bill shook his head. “Don’t dwell on the what-ifs. Believe me, I’ve been an expert at that game and it messes with you. Mitch’s death wasn’t in your control. Thank God you and your little boy weren’t more badly hurt.”
“I got off easy.”
“I don’t think you did.” He nudged her arm with his elbow. “Do you believe in God, Tonya?”
Oh no. She was not ready for a God speech. She did not want to get on her knees and pray, even if her soul did need saving.
Bill laughed. Another surprise. “Relax. I’m not getting preachy on you. I want to point out that if you do believe in God, you know that sometimes he has plans for us that we don’t know about. The accident was a horrible, tragic thing, but maybe something good can come out of it.”
“I don’t see how.”
/> “No, you can’t.” He rubbed his knee. “Not yet.”
The door behind the altar opened as three more flower arrangements arrived. The thick overripe smell of lilies overwhelmed the sanctuary. “I should get back to work,” she said.
He stood and limped into the aisle, letting her out. “I’m glad to have met you, Tonya. I’d love to talk to you again. Anytime.”
She nodded. As she pushed past him and moved to the door, she heard him say to the florist, “Take that big pink wreath outside. Stinks like dimestore perfume.”
CHAPTER 10
Lena had always hated black. There were women who loved the color for its slimming effect, but she found it morose. Undertakers wore black. Hearses and limousines. Black widow.
So as she stood in her closet searching for clothes to wear to her husband’s funeral, she knew she would not wear black. She did not want his service be filled with sadness, she wanted a celebration of Mitch’s life, yet that wouldn’t happen. Bill Tanner would do his best, but the homily would summarize Mitch in sound bites. The congregation would sing Mitch’s favorite hymns and comment on how many friends he had and admire all the flowers and then they’d all go back to their lives. Elliot would leave. Sims wouldn’t come around as much. What would Lena and Becca do? This, she couldn’t quite grasp. She’d been so busy over the past few days, telling people about Mitch’s death, tending to the arrangements. Taking care of her children. There had been a thousand little details to fill her time, but soon would come the day after the funeral, and all the other days, and how would they be spent?
What a funny way to use that word, spent, as if days were currency and eventually she would run out. She had almost run out last year, when her account decreased to mere pocket change. Then came her recovery, her account of days renewed, only to have Mitch’s days snatched away.
Her hand trembled as she skimmed through the wall of garments, looking for the right dress, and she felt a flush of panic when she couldn’t find it. Then there it was: the tailored purple silk Eileen Fisher that Mitch had bought for their anniversary. As she removed the hanger, she backed into Mitch’s clothes, wool itching through her nightgown. She reached for his jacket, the one he had worn the morning of the accident, returned to her at the hospital. She buried her nose in the fabric and breathed in Mitch’s cologne. Without thinking, she slipped her hand into the jacket pocket because she always emptied his clothes of mints, Werther’s candies, and coins. She found his folded handkerchief, the one he always carried and rarely used, with something hard tucked inside. A grayish stone, as wide as a checker, with specks that shimmered in the light. She skimmed her thumb over its peppery cool skin. Mitch had held it. She imagined his calloused fingers gripping its smooth edge. Her Mitch.
